


Define Us Forever

by Lapin



Series: These Are The Days [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabbles, Dwarf Gender Concepts, Erebor, F/M, Fíli as King, King Fili, M/M, Pieces of writing, Rebuilding Erebor, Ri Brothers - Freeform, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 73,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor rises from the ashes, and lays her ghosts to rest as her people rebuild under the rule of their new, untested king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Everything that happened before _Bind You Together_ or will happen after, or has no place in it.
> 
> NOW WITH ART!
> 
>  
> 
> [Fíli does not like being questioned](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/90845235298/fili-and-ori-as-the-king-and-consort-of-erebor)

“So, Dáin is sending...who?” Fíli asks, rubbing his temple. He wants a drink and he wants his bed, but Ori still has a pile of papers on the desk they need to sort through. The scritching of Ori's pen is starting to give him a headache. 

“Your cousin, Thorin, two advisers, one of his treasurers, and four regiments. So we really need to finish clearing out the barracks for them, or it will be two to a bunk at this rate. And Thorin won't mind staying in the barracks too, you know how he and his father are, but the others will want something more proper. We can shift some of the crews working on the mines to the living quarters and the barracks...oh, but the Miner's Guild will need to be negotiated with...you'll have to ask them personally, it's the only way they'll agree...”

Fíli swears to himself. “Why does it matter if I ask?”

“In case you haven't noticed, you're the king,” Ori replies dryly, tugging at his braid. One of the white flowers is coming loose. “Would you please just do it?” The _without complaining_ isn't said aloud, but it's in Ori's cutting look, rankling Fíli's nerves even more. 

“You know, why don't you ask them, if it's so damn important? Half of them want to bed you any way, they'll do whatever you want.” It's not as though it's untrue, but Ori just glares. 

“I'm not a noble, _Your Majesty_ , and I'm not letting one of them tumble me just because you want to be difficult.” Hearing Ori call him that damn title just flares his temper up.

“Don't bloody call me that,” Fíli warns, not in the mood. “Fine. I'll ask them, pay them that great honour.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” Ori replies. “You're meeting with Bard in the morning, don't forget. He wants to go over the housing situation down there as well, and then it seems as though there's some sort of issue with the wording on the last tax negotiation for grain, he'll want to go over that, I've already sent a missive to Glóin telling him he needs to be there...Lord Borin can sit in with you, transcribe and -”

“No, you'll be there,” Fíli corrects. 

“No, I won't,” Ori argues, slamming his pen down. “It's time you had a proper lord sitting in on those negotiations, I'm not _qualified_ , why won't you understand that?” 

“Because I don't know Lord Borin, and I don't trust him. You'll be there. Don't make me order you, Ori -”

“I'd like to see you try.” Ori hasn't left yet, surprisingly. “I know Bard, in any case. He'd probably prefer me over a stranger.”

“So why are you arguing in the first place?” Fíli really wants that drink. And his damn bed, even though he doubts he could sleep now. There's an itch of frustration under his skin that'll keep him up tonight. “Why can't you just do as I say?” No one would have argued with Thorin if he was king, not even Ori. 

“Why can't you just do what you're supposed to do? You're the damn king, Fíli, act like it.”

Fíli's temper finally snaps. “I didn't ask to be the damn king, and I don't want to be!” He wants to throw something, wants to shout. “Thorin was the bloody king, Thorin should be the king now! Now I've got to be this perfect king for him and my mother, and this whole stupid mountain keeps looking at me like I am, and I'm not, I hate this, all of this!”

He barely even gets a look from Ori. “You don't have a choice, so best accept it now,” he says, quietly.

“Fuck you,” Fíli replies nastily. “I've lost everything, do you realize that, everyone, I have no one -” Because Kíli barely seemed with them most days, his mother was still a world away, and Thorin was dead. Thorin is dead. He's gone. 

Ori stands and comes over to him, and then, without warning, slaps him hard. Fíli stares.

“No one left you _willingly_.” Ori has his arms around himself, his voice venomous.”Nori left me. He _left_ me here, on my own. My mother can't even make the journey here for months, do you realize? Her lungs are too bad. Dori is gone. I'm _alone_.” His voice is cracking, but he's still speaking. “You're not the only one who lost a parent, Fíli, so stop acting like you're the only one hurting! You stupid, awful boy, you act like you're the only one dealing with more than they know how! Just stop, by the Valar, I hate you, you're still the arrogant idiot you've always been -”

“Then why are you here?” Fíli demands, cutting him off sharply, the sting of the slap oddly refreshing. 

“Because Dori wanted Erebor, and I won't let it fall now! So stop being so stupid and -” he stops, covering his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shake. “I'm alone. I'm all alone, so just be quiet, just stop.”

The day they put the crown on his head, Ori had been standing at his left. Fíli never asked why he did, had only been grateful it was someone he knew and not some lord or lady attempting to ingratiate themselves. He had hardly known what to do when he was told the news about Dori, so he had done nothing, his own grief more than he knew how to face. 

He had not asked when Ori took it upon himself to guide Fíli through the laws, and the manners of address towards the people of the Iron Hills. Patiently explaining the old taxes of Erebor after he found the books and working on the calculations with Glóin about the new ones before showing them to Fíli. 

Every night. Every meeting. Ori has been beside him, and Fíli must be as selfish as Ori says, because he hasn't thought of Ori's own situation once. He hadn't asked about Ori's mother, hadn't asked if Nori was returning. He hadn't asked. 

“Stop,” Fíli says, as gently as he can. “Don't cry.” Ori doesn't even seem to hear him, so Fíli comes closer, and with no thought, wraps his arms around Ori. “It's all right.” Slowly, Ori's fingers start to twist in Fíli's shirt, his crying easing. “You're not alone. You're with me too often to be alone.” In his arms, Ori huffs. Laughing, maybe, or at least not crying. 

He doesn't let go of Fíli, but Fíli doesn't mind. No one has been so close to him in months. Not since before the Battle, embracing his brother, knocking his head against Dwalin's. Reaching for Thorin, even after he made attempt to throw Bilbo from the Gates. Always reaching for his uncle, and for one brief moment, that break in the anger on Thorin's face as he grabbed Fíli and Kíli both, pulling them close as though they were children again. 

Keeping Fíli close even after Kíli drew away, and touching their temples together. He can still feel Thorin's hand on the back of his neck, tightening the grip and whispering, “Stay safe, my heart-son.” 

And so he had. He and Kíli had lived, and Thorin had fallen. Dáin, the cousin he hardly knew, had been the one to tell him. Anyone else would have been gentle, would have been careful, but Dáin, with his bluntness had simply told Fíli how it was. That Thorin was dead, and Fíli was now the king. That he would support Fíli, help him as he could, but that for now, he had to be strong. Fíli had to show that the Line of Durin was unbroken, unbending, that Erebor was his, was theirs, once again. 

He had told Fíli that all his pain must be private, and slowly, Fíli had to come to see that it might have been the best advice his cousin had given him. 

Who had told Ori that his had to be as well? Why hadn't he said something? Or had he been speaking to someone else, telling someone else? No, how could he? He's only ever with Fíli, most of the time. It's Fíli he's telling this, Fíli he trusts, just as Fíli trusts him.

“I've never been on my own.” Fíli can feel Ori's breath against his shirt, can even feel where he's made Fíli's shirt damp. “Dori's always been there, or Nori, or my mother. I'm scared all the time now.” 

He's been just as afraid to be alone as Fíli. He holds Ori tighter, burying his face in Ori's hair. “I am as well,” he confesses. “All the time. I can't even sleep at night.” The Battle haunts him in his sleep, or the cells of Thranduil's keep. He wakes with the fear of Smaug's fury, the cold river, the war, all at the forefront of his mind, or worse, he wakes forgetting it all. He wakes in Ered Luin, with his brother in the bed beside him, and his mother and Thorin downstairs speaking. Those ones he holds hard, even when he remembers they're not real. 

That he's alone in this great big room, this room fit for a king, because he is a king now. 

That Thorin is gone.

So he does not sleep until he's too exhausted to fight it, or he drinks until he sleeps at his desk. He keeps Ori here until it's past midnight, because when Ori is here, putting everything into its place, breaking it all down into manageable points, Fíli feels centred. 

Maybe he hasn't been keeping Ori here after all. 

“I can't either,” Ori confides. “I sleep, and I see Ered Luin, my mother, and Dori, and Nori. I think I'm home, and then I wake up and Dori is gone, Dori is dead, and Nori left me. He _left_ me.” He keeps clinging to Fíli, and...it feels good. Better than Fíli has felt in a long time. Ori needs him, and it's not because he's a king. He needs Fíli because he's Fíli, because they've known one another their whole lives. 

To hold someone again, to feel connected, it does more for Fíli than anything else has. Two months since the Battle, and Fíli has felt adrift every day since, waiting for word from Ered Luin, for Balin to wake for more than a moment at a time. For Dwalin and Kíli to do _anything_. Writing his mother and having to tell her the news, that Thorin is dead and he is king, and he isn't even a hundred yet. 

He kisses Ori. It's just impulse. Ori pulls back for a moment, looks at Fíli, and before either of them start to think too hard about it, start to think at all, Ori rises up and kisses him, his hands sliding around to twine in Fíli's hair. 

Fíli hasn't thought about this sort of thing once since the Battle. He's hardly thinking about it now, just that he needs to feel something beyond this anger and loneliness. And before, damn, he never would have thought about this with Ori before, but right now, he's the only fixed point in Fíli's life. He's kissing Fíli back too, clutching at him tightly, not saying anything at all. When Fíli buries his face in the junction of Ori's neck and shoulder though, kissing the skin there, biting down, Ori makes a little noise, gripping Fíli's hair tighter, pushing against Fíli. 

Ori's breath is coming in pants now, and he's kissing Fíli everywhere he can reach, as Fíli pushes against him, wraps an arm around Ori's waist and forces them together. Fíli is hard and Ori must feel it, because he says, “Please,” and that's all. 

They're not talking, but they should probably talk about this. This is a stupid idea, and a big part of Fíli knows that, but he keeps kissing Ori any way. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything but being close to Ori right now. 

Once they're closer to his bed though, there is a moment where he slows down, almost stops, his kisses slowing long enough he can look down at Ori, asking a question he doesn't know how to voice. Ori still doesn't say anything, but he must know what Fíli is asking. Instead of talking, Ori undoes the hooks that hold Fíli's surcoat together, and encourages it off of him. 

It's the answer he needs, so he doesn't question it. He goes back to kissing Ori, stripping him of his clothes and letting Ori help him out of his own. 

Ori is smaller without his clothes. He's small, and Fíli isn't, so Fíli is careful when he eases Ori down onto the bed, when he crawl on top of him, kissing his way up Ori's stomach, chest, and neck. He's a slight Dwarf, not a warrior, but the quest has stripped him of most of his softness. That's all right. Fíli doesn't feel very soft either, so that's all right.

The thing is, Fíli has hated his bed since it was made. It's too big, too soft, after months of sleeping on the hard ground. But he doesn't mind it right now, maybe because Ori is under him, touching Fíli, grounding him again. Ori is soft, but not like the damn mattress. He's warm skin and hard bones and strength. He's exactly what Fíli needs right now.

Like a hit to the head, he realizes that this wouldn't work if this was anyone but Ori. It's in the quiet moments he's letting Ori adjust to him. Ori's nails digging into the back of Fíli's neck, his head turned to the side, eyes shut as he breathes. He's so _familiar_. Fíli's known him since they were too little to remember, and he knows him now too, knows him completely, probably better than anyone else Ori has bedded. Ori knows him too, he knows Fíli, and he needs someone who knows him. Who sees him as Fíli. 

He leans down and kisses Ori's jaw. “All right?” 

The hand not on Fíli's neck slides up under Fíli's arm, fingers catching at Fíli's shoulder blade. “All right.” He turns his head and they kiss again, Fíli trying to keep them close as he starts to move. He's as gentle as he knows how to be, because it's Ori, and he doesn't want to hurt him or push him too far, just be with him. He wants Ori to feel close to him too, to feel what Fíli is saying. 

He could say it could be anyone. That he just needs a body. But he wouldn't have kissed anyone but Ori, he wouldn't trust anyone else in his bed. Just Ori. Ori is the only one who feels what he feels, who wants the same things he wants. 

Neither of them last long. Ori comes first, and the sound he makes, the way his hands dig in and he clutches at Fíli through it, helps finish Fíli. He hides his face against Ori's neck when he does, one hand holding Ori's leg up against his side, the heel of Ori's foot just above the small of Fíli's back, the other hand gripping the pillow so he doesn't pull Ori's hair. 

They keep kissing even after Fíli pulls out and settles over him. “Stay,” Fíli begs, not wanting to be alone. Ori nods, and they go back to kissing. He couldn't beg anyone but Ori. He's the damn king now. Kings can't beg. Kings also don't get slapped. 

Ori hardly sees a king when he looks at Fíli, and if he does, well, he still slapped him.

Next to Ori, Fíli sleeps peacefully for the first time in a long time. 

He wakes up to Ori dressing. “It feels too early for this,” he says, unsure of the hour. The servant hasn't been in to build up the fire, so it must be very early.

“I can't be seen coming out of your rooms in the morning,” Ori explains quickly, not looking at him. “I'm a 'Ri, people are already gossiping, they don't need help.” 

“Yeah, you're right,” Fíli groans, sitting up so he can rest his elbows on his knees. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to get it out of his eyes and break up the clumps where his sweat had dried. “Ori, look, we need to talk about this...”

“This will not happen again,” Ori says, pulling his shirt down, still not looking at Fíli. “That's the end of it. We need to forget this, all right?”

Fíli looks at him, dressing in the weak light of the banked fire, trying to puzzle out last night, just what they had done. Why had they done that? That's never been their relationship. Ori's a 'Ri, and he's nice to look at, but he's always been Kíli's annoying little friend before he was anything else. He can't understand what gear shifted in their dynamic last night, why he even started it at all. “Uh, yeah,” he agrees, his mind not quite awake or sane yet. “That was...”

That had felt right.

“A mistake,” Ori finishes decisively. “This was a mistake.” He exhales hard and gathers himself together before finally, he looks at Fíli. “I'll see you at the meeting. It's in, three hours?” He glances at the clock. “I told your steward to wake you in about an hour or so, well, I told them last night, before I came up, so you should sleep until then. Or, if you're awake, you could go over the notes I made.”

“I'll go over the notes,” Fíli says, yawning. He'll never fall back asleep alone, not after this. “Anything else I need to know?” 

“Um...” Ori bites his lip, and he'd done that when Fíli was in him. “Just please, be kind to Bard. We need the support of Dale, and if that means conceding to things that seem unreasonable or him trying to show strength.” 

“Are you mad?” he demands.

“Fíli, please just listen to me on this.” Ori pleads, and he never pleads. It's not his nature. People always think it is, but Fíli knows Ori better than them. He knows how Ori whines and pretends to be the baby to Dori and Nori, manipulating them and everyone else the whole while. He knows how he pretends at being dumb. He knows that spark in Ori's eyes, the way he tugs the right strings. But he never pleads. Not with Fíli especially. “He is trying to show his people strength, and that he's not our servant, and if we want to have a good relationship with Dale further on, we have to let him. We need food, Fíli. Later on, when both our peoples are settled, we can raise taxes, can negotiate, but for now, let him do what he has to without walking all over us.” He huffs, his hands useless at his sides, and Fíli is struck by the sense memory of being _inside_ of him last night, the way his breath had felt against Fíli's skin. “What happened the last time we were unreasonable?” He's right. And before it would have rankled Fíli, would have made him push back. Not now.

Now, he's right, and Fíli can acknowledge it. “I don't always know when I'm being proud, Ori. I need you to tell me. Touch my shoulder when I'm not doing what you think is right.” He does that often enough already, usually so he can bend to whisper some advice or observation in Fíli's ear. Bard won't think anything of it. 

Well, he thinks something of it. Everyone does. They think Fíli doesn't hear their words, the rumours. Ori is a 'Ri, and there are always rumours about the 'Ri. Bard thinks there's something between them, in the way Men always try to guess at Dwarrows. 

Again, Ori makes that frustrated face. Who gets frustrated with a king? “I've told you, I'm not really qualified...”

“You know better than I do what he needs,” Fíli says, not letting Ori back down, belittle himself. “So show me.” 

Ori finishes wrapping his shawl around himself. Even in rich clothes, he's in layers. He's still hiding from the world. “All right,” he says. So that's the trick with Ori. Wear him down. 

Again, he feels Ori against him, his body, his voice when Fíli was _in_ him. 

“I'll see you in a few hours,” Ori says, again not looking at Fíli.

Once he's gone, Fíli lies back on the pillow. 

His bed is too damn soft. 

Eventually, he gets to the paperwork. 

And the days go by, the meetings and the work, and Ori does seem to forget. Or if he doesn't, he's a better liar than Fíli. The gears in his head shifted, and now he doesn't know how to shift them back. He's Ori, and he's still the same anxious, mouthy thing he's always been. But every time Fíli lets himself think about it, he gets more and more irritated at how easily Ori dismissed it, forgot it. He was in Fíli's bed, Fíli was _inside of him_ , and he keeps coming to Fíli's room, keeps working with him through the night.

And he never gives any indication that it happened, that he remembers it the way Fíli does. 

As more workers come into Erebor, more tailors and seamstresses and weavers, Ori dresses more and more like a noble now, even if he isn't one. Fíli's looked up the 'Ri in the histories since that night, idly, or so he tells himself. Never nobles, but special. Maybe this is what Ori would have looked like if he'd grown up here. His plain hair is growing out, his braids changing. Now, in his new clothes, Fíli can see the nape of his neck, just start to see the beginning of his tattoos. Sometimes now, Fíli thinks about how his hand would fit in that space, how easy it would be to put both his hands on Ori's shoulders and lean down to kiss Ori's spine. 

He had kissed Ori's spine that night. After the sex, after, when Ori had been nestled against him. He'd kissed Ori's spine, in the exact spot he eyes now, night after night. He wishes he'd put a mark there, so he could have seen it in the days following, so Ori couldn't have pretended. Ori's skin was soft to the touch, he knew now. It was soft and yielding. 

He never thought about those things before. Did he? Maybe, when he was bored, or hard and alone. Maybe he thought about soft Ori then, wondered if Ori thought about him. Why had he always gone to their damn shop? Needling Ori when all he could do was bristle and glare had amused him. Sometimes, every now and then, maybe he had wondered about Ori.

Always Kíli's mousy little friend though, who rolled his eyes and insisted on besting Fíli at soldiers more than anyone else could. 

Only not Kíli's mousy little friend any more. Now he's the only person Fíli doesn't feel like the bloody king with. He's Fíli's only fixed point, and that night, that had happened. He can't forget. 

And he's not so convinced it was a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super long chapter. Yes.

“Eight percent, and no less,” Bard says, his voice echoing. He never remembers to lower his voice in the Hall. 

Ori glances up from his papers at Bard, then up at Fíli, finding him looking down at Ori. He leans down, so Ori can quietly say, “Eight percent is reasonable. Glóin will agree to it without much fuss.”

“You're sure?” He nods, and Fíli sits straight again, saying, “We'll agree to that number. Have the contracts sent to our Treasury, and they will negotiate the finer points.” 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Bard says, bowing at the waist, but with more attitude than the more traditional nobles would appreciate directed at their king. Fíli doesn't mind though. He thinks Bard is funny. Ori does too, if he's honest, but not all the time. “And you, Lord Ori.” 

“I'm not a lord,” Ori corrects without thinking, still looking down at his papers. Bard seems taken aback, enough Ori looks up at him. He has that confused expression Men sometimes get when it comes to Dwarrows, so Ori clarifies before he thinks something else. He is very much not in the mood to be mistaken for a girl again. Men give him headaches. “My family aren't nobility, is all. So I'm not a lord.”

Bard inclines his head. “Forgive me, I assumed, what with you being one of the heroes of Erebor.” There's something critical in that, critical of Fíli, and it puts Ori's back up. It's not Fíli's fault that Ori is no lord, and they have more important things to worry about in Erebor than rewriting laws older than the pair of them combined just so Ori can have a title. 

“It's fine,” Ori replies, dismissing Bard outright and going back to his work. The healers want to speak with Fíli, and their appointment is soon. Bard is running over, and they won't like losing time because of a Man. 

“Is there anything else?” Fíli asks, and to his credit, it doesn't come off as dismissive. He's getting better at appearing patient. 

“Not for today, Your Grace, Ori,” Bard says, grinning up at them. “I'll take my leave. I left my daughter in charge while I was gone, and if I'm lucky, she hasn't supplanted me in my absence.” That makes Ori smile a little. Sigrid is a formidable lass, and Ori doesn't doubt she's half the mind behind running Dale now. 

Fíli smiles down at him, or what passes for Fíli smiling these days, and Bard is seen out. 

They're alone in the great big room, the guards more like statues than people. They cannot even hear Fíli and Ori up here, which Ori usually prefers, but after this morning, it feels wrong. Tense. 

Fíli says, very quietly, “I could make you a lord, Ori.”

It's an easier subject than a few others Fíli could choose, but it's still uncomfortable. “I'm a 'Ri, we're not allowed to be nobles.” The law is older than the pair of them combined, older even than if he added Gimli and Kíli as well. They're bastards of the Durin line, no matter how distant, and they cannot be counted amongst his true children. 

“I'm the king, and I make the laws,” Fíli replies, and he's becoming set on it. It makes Ori want to squirm, because it's...it's _different_ now. 

He'd gone home, washed and changed his clothes, redone his braids and had his breakfast, but he'd been doing it all without thinking. His mind had been abuzz, but empty and hollow at the same time as he tried to put last night out of his mind. He hardly believes it happened at all, is almost sure he's going to snap out of this and it will be just something his mind conjured up. 

They slept together.

And the oddest part is, it had made sense last night. Fíli had felt like his whole world last night, and he'd wanted to be with him. He'd even wanted to stay in the bed, stay under Fíli's arm with Fíli pressed against his back. For the first time since he'd left Ered Luin, he'd felt safe as he slept. But then he woke up to a new morning and the rest of the world came back into his mind. 

“Just leave it,” Ori says, running his thumb over the smooth body of his pen. He was never allowed pens in Ered Luin, unless they were Balin's. He never had one of his own. Now he has a box of them, a gift from Dáin's people. “It's not important.” 

He doesn't want Fíli to make him a lord for more than one reason. Before, it was because everyone assumed they were sleeping together, and Ori didn't want to hear the gossip. Now, when they have, it would feel cheapened to him as well. 

“All right,” Fíli says, but that's not the end of it. It never is with Fíli.

Ori wishes he could take it back, all of it. “The healers will be in soon. They're not happy.” 

“Are they the ones who won't speak Common?” 

It frustrates Ori when Fíli lets these stupid nobles have their way. “You're the King Under the Mountain. Tell them they'll speak in Common or you won't hear them at all.” It's not that he and Fíli don't understand Khuzdul, it's that so many nobles speak in different dialects, and between the pair of them, they only catch every other word. They hardly spoke full Khuzdul in Ered Luin. Words slipped in, phrases. But most of the children spoke in Common on a day to day basis, and even now, Khuzdul feels foreign in Ori's mouth and mind. It's no different for Fíli.

They need Balin so much now. The thought makes Ori tap his pen against his paper, wondering if they'll let him see Balin today. He's been awake more now, and supposedly more alert. Sometimes he still forgets who Ori is or where he is, but for the most part, he has started to seem more like his master and not an invalid when he actually is awake. 

He should have asked Balin to teach him the different dialects when he had the chance. 

Fíli is looking down at him, and for an instant, Ori forgets who he is. In Ered Luin, they'd been boys together, and maybe if what had happened last night happened there, Ori wouldn't feel this way. Last night, he'd warmed a king's bed, not a boy from Ered Luin. It had been a king with his arm wrapped around Ori's waist as they slept, a king who had kissed the back of Ori's neck as they fell asleep.

He's a king now. Fíli's isn't just his best friend's older brother any more. He's the bloody king of Erebor and Ori was a 'Ri last night, just another 'Ri keeping another king company. That's how people would see it. 

But when he thinks of them as just Fíli and Ori, that's not what it was, and that frightens him even more. 

“You're never scared of any of them, are you?” Fíli asks, snapping Ori's thoughts back. 

“I've dealt with people like them my whole life, Fíli. They're nothing to be scared of. You're the king, after all.” Ori hasn't had that advantage, and he's managed all these years. Fíli shouldn't have a problem, if he would just stop pretending he's not who he is. “You make the rules now, not them.” 

He's smirking down at Ori. “You know, they're all saying you make the rules, not me.” 

“I'm aware,” Ori drawls, unimpressed. He's heard the rumours about himself and Fíli enough, and hated every single one of them. 

The 'Ri sitting at the king's feet, the one who whispers in the king's ear. Everyone has something to say about that, and the worst part is, most of it isn't even malicious from what Ori has heard, though he's sure some of it is unkind. Most of them seem to think it's all very romantic, that of course their king should have a bond with a member of the Company. 

But now the rumours aren't without a pebble of truth.

Ori wonders what the people who knew them in Ered Luin will think when they arrive. 

He tries to crack his neck, but it refuses, leaving him feeling even worse after he tries. Fíli's bed is too soft, and his body doesn't feel rested. Doesn't help that they weren't really sleeping for half the night. Working, always working, and then that awful mistake. Ori's done in. 

They're interrupted by a guard coming in, bowing stiffly at the waist to Fíli and standing straight at attention again. They don't say a word, and Ori realizes Fíli has forgotten he has to acknowledge them, so he looks up at him, raising his eyebrows. For a minute, Fíli frowns back at him, then grimaces, remembering. “Speak,” Fíli says, sounding annoyed, and Ori looks back at the guard. 

“Your Grace, a lord from the North is here, Lord Albin. He insists upon seeing you now.” 

Fíli looks down at Ori again. “The healers are still waiting,” Ori reminds him. They can't put them off any more. 

“Is it important?” Fíli asks the guard, and a ripple of _something_ crosses the guard's face. 

“That's not for me to decide, Your Grace,” the guard says, and Ori just barely keeps back his undignified snort. He's common, and he knows what it looks like when another common person is annoyed by a noble. “Should I send him in?” 

Fíli shakes his head. “Tell him he will have to wait until I have seen my appointments.” 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” the guard says, bowing again.

Once they're gone, Fíli asks, “Did they seem a little too happy to do that?” 

“I'm sure Lord Albin was very respectful when he demanded an audience with the king, regardless of of the people already waiting in the hall,” Ori replies without thinking, and only when Fíli huffs in amusement does he remember again that things are different now. Or they should be, shouldn't they?

They should be. Ori feels different, at the very least. 

They get through the appointment with the healers, and then the two other waiting appointments, neither of which are terribly urgent or even really something Fíli should be bothered with. Ori never thought of the Court as a petty place, but it really seems to be. He's mostly confused by it. He always thought of nobles as...different. But they argue like Nori on a bad day in the market, and they're not any more polite than Nori. 

Ori actually smiles at his papers, lost in remembering how many times Dori had stood back, dignified and untouchable, while Nori very evenly spoke to whatever merchant wouldn't give in to Dori's polite negotiations until they paled and gave Dori an even lower price than what he had asked for. Ori had always stood at Dori's side, watching, puzzled as to why when Nori asked, suddenly even the most stubborn merchant wanted to negotiate. 

It makes him smile sometimes now, thinking about Dori. It still leaves that hollow ache in his chest, for the most part, but sometimes he likes thinking about his brother now. 

“Lord Albin, son of Lord Belbin, if it pleases you, Your Grace,” the herald announces, and Ori glances up, curious about this lord that has waited so many hours.

The lord in question has black hair and pale skin and a very thin mouth. He walks in with sweeping robes, reminding Ori of a big black crow. Crows don't usually have such an unpleasant expression on their face though. Well, he was waiting quite awhile, wasn't he? 

The way he looks down his nose at Ori, lip curling just a little, makes Ori cast his eyes down. There are still some who don't much care whether Ori is a hero of Erebor or not. He's still a 'Ri to them, unfit to sit at Fíli's feet in the Court. He supposes he's not helping his own case by wearing his hair ribbons instead of beads, but he still hasn't quite worked out the trick of beads and clasps, and he'd rather his braids be common and neat, than wealthy and clumsy. 

“I don't believe we've met, Lord Albin,” Fíli greets. 

“We have not yet had the pleasure, Your Grace,” the lord replies, while Ori starts to idly sketch. This doesn't seem as though it needs his attention, and no sooner has he thought it then Albin says, “If I could have your ear for a moment, Your Grace, with more privacy?” He means he wants Ori out, and Ori's not in the mood for any of this nonsense. He's tired, and he could use an early day. 

But Fíli never has liked being told what to do. “Ori is my scribe, Lord Albin. I prefer him with me.” 

Ori would glare if he thought he could get away with it. Unfortunately, Lord Albin is likely just waiting for him to do something inappropriate so he can feel he's right about Ori. As it stands, Ori would rather he look at anything else in the room. He can feel the lord's eyes on him, knows exactly what he's thinking of Ori. 

“Very well then, Your Grace,” Albin agrees graciously, in the way of nobles, as though he's Fíli's better, indulging Fíli on a silly whim. “When Erebor last stood, my father, Lord Belbin, held the position of Minister of War. I was but a child, and I only sat beside him, but in our exile, he taught me well. And in our settlement to the north, he became a leader, as was I, upon his death.” 

Fíli looks down at Ori, an eyebrow raised. Ori restrains himself from rolling his eyes, and scribbles down, _The Minister of War controls the finances and treaties. Your generals control the actual soldiers and wars. We don't have a new one yet_ , where Fíli can see. He leaves off the _idiot_. 

He might not have yesterday, but yesterday was before last night. 

“Are you asking for the position, Lord Albin?” Fíli asks, and can't quite manage to keep the annoyance out of his tone. “Because if you are, I'm sorry to say that we haven't even appointed a Speaker, which Ori tells me is important.” 

He just has to needle Ori, doesn't he? “The First Speaker manages all the Ministers, and the judges, and I have told you at least a hundred times that one must be appointed,” he reminds Fíli in a hiss, not heedless enough of Lord Albin's presence to allow him to hear. 

“And when Balin awakes, we'll have one,” Fíli hisses back. 

Ori is tempted to hit him, but that's not how it is any more, is it? They're not boys in Ered Luin, Fíli is the king, and Ori is sitting at his feet in their once lost kingdom. He'd hit him last night, of course. Instead of thinking of either of those things, he writes, _then tell him you'll appoint those positions when things are more settled_ , and shows Fíli. 

“I'm not ready to fill those positions just yet, Lord Albin, but I'm sure some of the guild heads would appreciate your help until that time comes,” Fíli says, impressing Ori just a bit. He is getting better at this. It's not as though he could get much worse, of course. “Do you have a trade, Lord Albin?” 

The lord smiles, but it's not a real one. It's that polite, apologetic one lords and ladies make when they're pretending at humility. “I'm afraid I never had the chance, Your Grace. My father's responsibilities, and later my own, kept me from a true mastery.” It's nonsense, and Ori doesn't have to tell Fíli that. Fíli was the Crown Prince of a kingdom he'd never known, and he has a trade, a mastery. Lord Albin is nothing more than yet another entitled Dwarf. They've both seen too many of those. 

Thorin had a trade. 

Fíli says, rather dismissively, “Still, I imagine you're good with numbers. The guilds would appreciate that.” 

“I am, Your Grace,” the lord says. “And I am happy to lend my help wherever needed. I have many in my employ who would gladly give to Erebor. Servants, and accountants, and scribes.” It's not kindness. It's said to Fíli, with a conspiratorial eye towards Ori. He's expecting Fíli to agree, to dismiss Ori as what he, Lord Albin, sees Ori as. Ori can say he is a scribe until the Sun rises in the West, but people like Lord Albin will always see him as a 'Ri. As a whore. 

And Dori had been strong and vicious when necessary, but he'd also been pretty. And Nori is Nori, but he's pretty too. And so many of their people hear _'Ri_ and they can dismiss Dori's prowess with the flail and the sword, Nori's knives, and laugh. Because the 'Ri are always pretty. And they are the descendants of a whore that a king fucked, and they will always be bastards. 

Ori is a scribe. But to this lord, he's a 'Ri whore kneeling at the king's feet in the day and warming his bed at night. And before last night, that assumption wouldn't have bothered him so much, but now it's true.

'Ri will never be nobles, and suddenly, this lord's dismissive gaze hurts in a way it hasn't in a long time. 

Fíli says, “Thank you. Ori might like a day, every now and then.” He looks down at Ori. “Wouldn't you?” 

He writes, _You'd have us at war with the whole world by the time I came back_ , at the same time he says aloud, “I'm happy to serve you, Your Majesty.” Fíli hates it when Ori calls him that, and so he knows just how annoyed Ori is right now with this stupid lord and his stupid assumptions. 

“There you have it,” Fíli says, cold, as cold and distant as Thorin could be at times. “I'm in no need of a scribe.” 

It's funny, but they're still not really friends. Their relationship was by proxy of Kíli, but now that Kíli is removed, they're unsteady. They're not friends. Not really. Ori wouldn't enjoy spending time with Fíli as he did Kíli. But when he's here, at Fíli's feet, or in Fíli's room, he feels more at ease. Feels safe. Fíli might not like Ori too much, but he keeps Ori safe. 

Lord Albin doesn't seem pleased. “I would have thought all the 'Ri would be eager to return to the Silk District,” he says, and Ori cannot look up from his own papers now, his face burning. His brothers hadn't even practised that trade, but everyone who's anyone knows all about Thorin's Company now, knows their families, their lines. And he is a son of Glori, daughter of Kori. When Erebor still stood, his mother had been a famous beauty. Even the king had been enthralled by her, though thankfully, no children had been sired by him. Dori and Nori had laughed uproariously when Ori dared ask if Dori was Thror's son, while his mother had rolled her eyes over her hand loom. 

Ori had been rather little at the time, of course. They hadn't needed to laugh so much. Dori could be just as awful as Nori, given the chance. 

“I understand the Silk District is in need of accountants and scribes,” Fíli says, and why does he have to sound quite so defensive? “They would welcome your help, I'm sure.” 

“Wherever I am needed, Your Grace,” Lord Albin agrees. 

He a least seems able to sense when he's reached the end of his audience, because now Lord Albin bows and excuses himself, claiming some household matters he needs to oversee. Ori doesn't doubt he'd brought servants. The more practical lords and ladies had left most of their households behind while they secured quarters and other necessities, but there have been some who have arrived with twenty servants to their name. It's perplexing, but mostly stupid. Ori will never understand nobles, for as long as he lives.

The pair of them are leaving together, Fíli's hands joined behind his back as he walks. Ori waits until he's sure they're alone, and grabs at Fíli's elbow, forcing him to stop and face Ori. “What?” he asks, Ori drawing back to himself quickly. 

“Don't do that,” Ori demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don't defend me like that.”

Fíli's jaw tenses. “He doesn't have the right to talk about you like that. No one does, and they won't in my presence.” 

“I'm a _'Ri_ ,” Ori reminds him.

“And I'm the bloody king, as you're so fond of reminding me, even if you don't respect it.” He smirks, and Ori, for some strange reason, decides he hates the expression. Fíli smirked before, of course. But he smiled just as often, if not more. Now he never smiles. He hadn't even smiled last night. And oh, Ori had slapped him last night, hadn't he? Who slaps a king? He'd just been so upset with Fíli, and he's never hesitated to strike him before. He'd forgotten, for an instant, is all. Even now, Fíli is looking down at him, and he's only Fíli, being stubborn and ridiculous. 

“So what, you being the king means I'm not a 'Ri any more?” Ori is trying so hard to say it without saying the actual words. Fíli knows. He just keeps pretending it doesn't matter and it matters now. “I told you, people are already talking. You defending me like that -”

“You're a hero of Erebor, and you're my scribe,” Fíli cuts him off. “Anyone who talks about you like that, to your damn face even, I'll have them strung up -”

“Why?” Ori asks, looking at the floor. “We're not friends, Fíli.” And now it's Fíli who touches him, clucks his chin up until he has to look at Fíli. “ _Stop_.”

“They're not going to talk about you like that,” Fíli insists, and when he looks at Ori like this, it's not like Ered Luin. He's not that lad Ori hated so much any more, and Ori's not who he was either. It's different. They're different. “I won't let them.” 

“You cannot control people's thoughts,” Ori reminds him. 

“But I can control their tongues,” Fíli refutes. “Ori...”

“Would you have said the same thing yesterday?” 

Fíli grimaces. “Don't do this. This has nothing to do with that.”

Ori pulls out of his grip, and looks away, down at the ground. It's hard to look at him. It's not like the throne room, when they can still work around themselves. Here in this hall, in private, it's Fíli's room all over again. “I'm always going to be a 'Ri, and people like him are always going to see a 'Ri when they look at me. If you defend me, like you just did, all you do is confirm what they think is going on. That I'm warming your bed. And that's not helping anything.” He knows Fíli's expression has hardened without looking at him. He knows Fíli. “I can take care of myself.” 

“You don't have to,” Fíli says, and that makes Ori look back up at him. “I'll protect you.”

And Ori wants to believe that it has nothing to do with last night. He almost can. Fíli is a good Dwarf, underneath it all. He would defend someone he cared about. He does care about Ori, in his own way. 

If last night hadn't happened, he could.

“I don't need you to, and I don't want you to,” Ori says now, and walks away hurriedly. Fíli doesn't follow. 

To his credit, Fíli doesn't bring it up again, in the following weeks that turn into months. Ori is occupied by his role in Erebor, and the rest of his life. 

He grows used to Bofur coming to the old 'Ri house after his work is done. Ori knows he's likely only doing it because Nori asked, and Ori's not inclined to feel too charitable towards his second brother right now, but he does soften a bit after he realizes Nori at least thought to ask someone to look after him. Bofur takes a room on the ground floor near the one Ori settles in, and after a few weeks of haphazard work, they get the first floor liveable again, for the most part. The kitchen smokes more than Ori would like, but he supposes he'll get it replaced when there's time. 

The pair of them take their morning and evening meals together sometimes, but it's nice to just know there's someone else in the house with him. It's not quite as good as having his brothers and his mother, but Ori's started to accept that he's never going to have that particular feeling back. It's not the only feeling he'll never have back.

He'd thought he loved Bofur, once, back in Ered Luin. But whatever was there is gone, and that's not how their people love, so it wasn't love. It's easier to accept than he thought it would be. Their mother always did say there was no sense in falling in love before he was a century, usually while giving Dori and Nori a look. 

They have a festival, the first held in Erebor since the dragon, celebrating the forging of the stars, and he and Bofur go with the rest of Bofur's family. A vendor from Dale is selling spun sugar, like Ori hasn't had since he was only half as tall as he is now. Dori and their mother hadn't liked him having sweets. 

Someone wearing a very familiar ring steals a piece, and Ori doesn't have to turn to see Fíli. “You're the king, get your own,” he says, looking up at the stars. Bard claims there will be fireworks, and Ori hasn't seen those since around the same time he last had spun sugar. 

“Easier to take yours,” Fíli replies. “Have you seen Kíli?”

Ori has. “He went back to the palace. There were too many people, I think.” He's been better, Kíli, but the crowds still overwhelm him. 

Fíli sighs, and this time Ori offers him some of the spun sugar. The sweet is a little more than he remembered, and Fíli's always liked sweet. “He won't talk to me.” He looks down at Ori. “What's he say to you?” 

“He's getting better,” Ori says, and leaves it at that. Kíli tells him things in confidence, and Ori won't break it unless he thinks it's really necessary. “Just let him be. He'll find his way.”

At this point, they're sharing the spun sugar, walking away from the main party and into the trees. The stars are different here in Erebor. Now Fíli looks up, and says, “You've looked up the constellations here, haven't you?”

“Yes,” Ori replies. “See that one there, the one with the five points?” 

“No.” He comes around behind Ori, practically pressed against his back, and tries to follow Ori's sight. Ori takes Fíli's arm, and uses his hand to trace the shape. “Oh, that one. What's that one?” 

“The Sisters,” Ori explains, not minding Fíli staying close. It's cold, and Fíli is warm. “The story says that when the youngest died, her sisters followed her into the stars to protect her.” 

Fíli finally lets go, taking some more of the spun sugar. It's cold enough Ori misses him. 

“Fireworks will start at the bell,” Fíli says, as Ori sits down on one of the old stone benches that still stand amongst the trees. Fíli sits beside him, and they quietly wait for the bell, sharing the spun sugar until it's gone, and the fireworks start. 

The king walks him home, and they talk about how far the builders have gotten on the housing. Bofur is already there by the time they find their way back, waiting up for Ori on the front step with a lit pipe. Ori says good-bye to Fíli, good night to Bofur, and goes inside to his bed.

That morning is the first he wakes before the bell with his stomach churning uncontrollably until he's sick in the washbasin. After it's passed, he feels all right, but there's a long moment he stares at his own reflection in the old, clouded looking glass, and wonders. 

He's sick often after that morning, but life moves on, and he pretends it's nothing, because if it's not nothing, Ori's not sure he can handle it. Instead, he throws himself further into outside tasks, responsibilities he takes on without anyone ordering him to.

Slowly, his master is returning to the world, and Ori is by his side every step of the way, reminding Balin of who he is, what he knows. That Ori is Ori, his apprentice, and by the time Ori has started to dread the mornings and the mid-afternoons, Ori doesn't have to remind him any more. 

“You've done a fine job in my place,” Balin chuckles one day, leaning on his cane instead of Ori today. “Better even. You're a fair bit nicer to look at than me. I imagine half of Dáin's people are already in love with you.” He's only joking, but Ori rolls his eyes. 

“If you mean they stare and send gifts to my home, then yes,” Ori drawls. He's received so many hair ribbons, he couldn't wear them in a lifetime. “It was never like this in Ered Luin.”

“Everyone in Ered Luin knew Dori and Nori, and they never would have dared to look at you the wrong way, much less send you a gift,” Balin counters, smiling. “How are you doing, my lad?” And that's gentle. He had to tell Balin a few times that Dori was dead before he remembered. 

Ori shrugs. “I miss him. And Nori.”

Balin's smile tightens. “Has Nori sent word?”

“Last I heard, he was in the East again,” Ori replies, and tries not to sound bitter. He has an idea as to why Nori left, why he just threw all his supplies together and _left_ , with no explanation, no hints, not until Ori found the room that must have been Dori and their older sister's nursery. It hadn't been a dragon that overturned the tables and the cot, that destroyed half the toys. He has an idea, but he still hasn't forgiven him. “I don't expect to see him for awhile. He never was very good at this sort of thing. Was never very good at being on his own. Without Dori.” 

“And you are?” Balin asks shrewdly. 

“I'm not Nori,” Ori says, and hopes that's not insulting. Only Nori had always been so close to Dori, so dependent on him. Their mother had been sick when Nori was little, the ash lung effecting her, and so Dori had raised him up before she got better again. It had been different for him. She'd been well when Ori was little, before the hard winters came. “My mother will be here by the summer, in any case.” Balin always did get along with Glori. The pair of them were shrewd and clever and shared a sense of humour, and he hoped her presence would help Balin recover faster.

“I'll be glad to welcome her home,” Balin says, a genuine note of relief in his voice. “I've missed her. She's always been my best counsellor.” Because Ori's mum always knows when people are lying, and Balin had valued her for it. 

Ori always knows when people are lying too, and Fíli values it. He's come to see that what he knows about people, what he hears when they speak, isn't what everyone else hears. Ori hears lies, and knows them for what they are. Fíli doesn't, and Ori doesn't know how, so he tells Fíli. There's been so many lies said right to Fíli's face, and Ori has written it down on his paper, shown Fíli.

“I've missed her too,” Ori says. He's been lonely here in Ered Luin, everyone so busy, or worse, injured and recovering. Well, maybe he hasn't been as lonely as he should be, if he's honest. He's still spending almost every night with Fíli, until he's too tired to think, and he spends almost every day with him as well, trailing after him with his papers in hand. 

Today is one of his days though, Fíli with Dwalin and Glóin to oversee the barracks and the new recruits. He's planning on seeing Kíli later, making him lunch and sitting with him for a few hours. 

Balin is looking at him a little too intently, and Ori squirms under the gaze. “What?”

“Lad, are you quite well?” 

No, he hasn't been, but he's still not ready to think about it. “I'm just tired, is all.” 

“Well, get some rest,” Balin advises gently. “You're pale.” 

He's more than just pale and tired. Erebor coming alive again, their friends getting better, and so many of their friends from home coming in the first caravan aren't the only changes that Ori's been obsessed with. A sensible part of him knows that he shouldn't ignore it.

But he is.

“How's Dwalin?” Ori asks, distracting the both of them. “He seems better.” He's been weaned off the poppy's milk at least, and he's thrown himself into getting the military in order, but Ori doesn't see him much. 

“Still needs the willow-bark in the morning and at night, but other than that, he's recovering nicely. He never was one to give into the dreams. Now that his ribs have knitted, he doesn't have much use for the poppy's milk.” Balin taps the side of his nose with the index of his free hand. “Wouldn't say no to a smoke of it myself, if I'm being fair. Mix it with a little pipeweed, and you have a good night's sleep. Maybe you should try?” 

Nori's always liked a puff or two of that, and Dori was never opposed when Nori and their mother were indulging, but Ori's never liked the stuff. It turns his stomach, and the way he's felt, he'd probably be sick just from the smell. As of late, the smell of everything from bacon to the herb bundles Bofur uses to light the fires in the house has made his stomach roll. 

He knows what's wrong, if he's honest with himself, or at least trying to be. But that doesn't mean he has to believe it just yet. 

Instead, he keeps going, keeps sitting at Fíli's feet and scribing for him, keeps sitting up with him and helping where he can. But being around Fíli really is so different now. Ori's always known Fíli was strong and tall, and very blond and very charming, and that many people look after him with calf-eyes. He's known it, but he's never much cared before. Well, not really. It would be a lie to say he didn't notice Fíli, but it had never meant anything to Ori, not really, because Ori didn't like Fíli. He was too arrogant, too full of himself, and too serious for Ori. 

They made things different that night.

Kíli used to be no less arrogant, but he was always fun. Or he was, before the battle. Ori's not sure Kíli will ever be fun again, at this point. His friend hardly ever smiles any more, never laughs at all. Even all these months later, Ori sometimes still has to struggle to get his attention and pull him out of whatever thoughts he's lost in. Ori himself has nightmares, some he doesn't remember, most he does. But when he's awake, he's awake. It doesn't seem the same for Kíli. 

“You'll like this,” Ori says, ladling out some of the stew for Kíli. “It's sort of like what I made in Ered Luin, only that was rabbit, and this is venison. Never thought we'd get venison, but there you go. Bard says it'll be mutton, goat, and fish for the most part, but there are plenty of deer as well. You should go with the parties one day, you'd love it.” He always did love to hunt.

Kíli blinks, and looks up at Ori as though he's not sure where he came from. “Pardon?” 

Ori puts the stew in front of him. “You should go hunting. Shoot your bow, at least.” 

“Maybe,” Kíli replies, but it's so listless it might as well be _no_. He's looking at Ori now, very intently, as Ori sits across the table from him. “Are you all right?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You look tired,” he says, stirring the stew with his spoon. “Fíli working you too hard?” There's something in how he says it that makes Ori's face heat up. Kíli is very awake today, because he smiles, even if it is just the corners of his mouth turning up. “Thought so. Gimli and me had a wager on when that was going to happen, you know. Should have told you. Gimli's won now. Whenever he gets here.” 

“Oh, shut it.” Of course they had a wager. Gimli and Kíli would wager on the exact second of the sunrise if it occurred to them. Doesn't mean he's not going to find a way to get back at the pair of them for making such a crass wager about him. “It was only once. And it was a mistake, we agreed.” 

Kíli is eating, and Ori counts it as a victory. He hasn't been starving himself, but he's been disinterested in his meals, and it's started to show. Maybe he's finally coming back to himself more fully. “You sure about that?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean I've seen my brother watching you now, when that Sir...what's his name, the dark one with the blue hair and the rings in his lip...”

“Sir Engin,” Ori reminds him, taking a drink of his tea. He used to take it with sugar, when he could get sugar, but lately too much sweetness really turns his stomach. “What about him?”

“He flirts with you, and Fíli doesn't like it. You haven't heard how impatient he is with Engin? He bloody snaps at him when you're at his side, because Engin keeps looking at you.” 

He hasn't noticed that. Usually he sits beside Fíli, on his floor cushion, so he can write comfortably, and his eyes are almost always on the paper. “It's not what you think it is,” Ori tries to explain. He's all Fíli has some days, when Kíli is well and truly dreaming even when his eyes are open, and he's always been selfish. He wouldn't want Ori's attention taken away, is all, especially not by some noble from the Iron Hills who would take Ori away. Fíli cannot stand to lose anyone else. 

Kíli eyes him over his ale. “I know my brother, Ori.” 

“There's nothing between us, Kíli. Never has been.” That's what he's telling himself at least, but Kíli isn't blind. If he sees something, there very well might be. There shouldn't be, but they'd done what they had, and it's changed them. But if Fíli feels anything towards Ori, it's not love, or even affection. Ori would know. Still, he says, “I'm not interested in Sir Engin. He's just a silly flirt.”

“You never see yourself as everyone else sees you,” Kíli says, and to Ori's great surprise, he chuckles. Ori can't help but smile, because Kíli laughed, and he hasn't laughed since Ori can remember. Even if he is making fun of Ori, in his own way. “Sir Engin wants to take you back to the Iron Hills as his prize. A hero of Erebor, clever and fair and able to bear.”

“Did you come up with that off the top of your head?” Ori asks wonderingly. He's always appreciated Kíli's cleverness with words. 

“No, actually, I thought it up awhile ago, to tease Fíli, but then...” His smile falls, the brightness in his face fading. “I forgot it, until now.” He rubs at his temple, frowning. “Damn.”

Ori smiles, or tries to. “It's all right, Kíli.”

“You know, you're the only one who says it is,” Kíli replies, putting his ale down and pushing it across the table so it's front of Ori. “That never helps. Makes it worse.” He stirs his stew.

“Eat,” Ori insists. “Even if you're not hungry, eat. I worked really hard to make it.” He's not above resorting to making Kíli feel guilty. It works, at least. Kíli pointedly puts a spoonful in his mouth, then another. “And it is all right, you know. I don't mind.” Well, he does, but he's mostly grateful that Kíli is alive. He's alive. That's really all that matters. “One day, we'll all be all right again.”

Kíli grins again, a shadow of his old self. “Not if you keep making Fíli jealous. He'll have someone killed before long.”

“It's _not_ what you think,” Ori says again, putting his spoon down. His stomach has started to turn, so he takes a sip of bitter tea, hoping it will help. “He doesn't...you say I'm fair, but Fíli and you never looked at me that way, and you know it.”

“I don't favour lads,” Kíli excuses, shrugging. “But Fíli does.”

“You're seeing something where there's _nothing_ ,” Ori protests, wishing his stomach would settle already. “It was a stupid mistake, just once, and you're just...you're teasing me, I know it.”

“You're in his rooms every night still,” Kíli points out. “I'm teasing, yeah, but I'm not wrong, and I'm not the only one thinking there's something more going on.” 

Ori's insulted, but more embarrassed than anything else. He knew people were still saying things.

Kíli inhales sharply, and shakes his head, a bad sign. When he stands and walks away from the table, Ori's afraid he's walking in dreams again, and he doesn't know how to help him, how to fix it. He's thought to ask the Elves for help, multiple times now. The red-haired woman, she favours Kíli, and she might know what to do, but every time he thinks to ask, he remembers being in that cell, being so afraid. He doesn't know if he trusts them with Kíli. 

He's thinking of this right as the bile rises in his throat, and he has to rush to the kitchen sink to heave. The pair of them always eat in the kitchen, still too common to know quite what to do with a dining table and servants. 

Good thing there are no servants about. If there are rumours, Ori won't add to them. 

Someone, Kíli, is holding his braids, rubbing his back until he's done. Once he is, Kíli pours him some water from the pitcher, and watches while Ori drinks it. Once he's done, Kíli asks, very lightly, so much like his old self, “And how long has that been going on?”

“Shut it,” Ori hisses, answering Kíli's question even if he doesn't mean to. He thinks he might cry. 

“So Fíli has a reason to be jealous,” Kíli says, still rubbing his temple. He's not quite completely with Ori right now, but he mostly is, and it has to be enough. “Anyone we know?”

He could lie. He really could. But it's Kíli, so he says, “I've only been with Fíli since before the quest.” 

Now he has Kíli's full attention, his oldest friend staring at him. “It's Fíli's?” 

“It's not anything!” He snaps angrily. 

He wants to cry. 

This isn't fair. He should have told Fíli to be careful, to pull out, but neither of them were thinking straight. He'd just wanted to feel something, to be close to someone he trusted, and he trusts Fíli. He's never liked Fíli, but he's trusted Fíli for longer than he thought. And his mother and Dori always told him he couldn't until he came of age. That it wasn't a risk. 

He grips the sink hard enough his knuckles whiten, and before he knows it, he's being sick again. There isn't even anything in his stomach, so it's just the yellow dregs from his belly that burn his throat and mouth. He still heaves, his eyes tearing up as he does.

“Don't lie to me,” Kíli says, again helping Ori. “Does Fíli know?”

“There's nothing to tell him.” Ori cannot handle it being otherwise. 

But he can say it as much as he likes, can deny it, and it won't make it any less true, will it? Everything in the kitchen smells awful. The whole stupid old house smells awful. He doesn't want to eat, and craves things more than water when they were in Mirkwood in equal turns. He can't sleep without taking all the great big ridiculous pillows on the bed and placing them between his legs. And he's tired, all the time now. 

He chooses to ignore everything his mother and brothers told him about bearing, about the symptoms. It can't be. He's not involved with Fíli, he's not of age, they only had sex _once_. Just that one mistake. He's not that way. Not after one mistake.

Why hadn't he told Fíli to stop? He knows what he is, has since he was old enough to be told. Fíli hadn't known. That wasn't Fíli's responsibility, it was Ori's. 

Kíli's not having it. “Ori,” and he's Ori's oldest, closest friend, him and Gimli both. “Is it Fíli's?” 

“I don't know,” Ori admits. “But if I'm bearing, he sired it.” 

“Mahal fucking melt it down,” Kíli swears, sitting down heavily in his chair. 

“It was one, stupid mistake,” Ori hisses, sitting opposite of him, his throat hot and tight. “It's not fair. We don't even like one another.”

“Is that still the case? Seems to me, if you really didn't like him, you wouldn't spend more time with him than me these days.” Kíli gathers his own loose hair back in a queue, until it's out of his face. “Even for Erebor. You're always by his side now. People used to say you were my shadow, but now you're his.” He exhales, and looks very old as he starts to eat again. “You're his now.”

“I'm not anyone's,” Ori protests. “And you're still my friend. I just can't do everything at once, you know. Fíli needs help, and you know his temper is awful, so he needs me there to keep him from doing something utterly stupid. And you're not there to keep him in line any more.” Not for the first time, he presses the issue. “Kíli, if you would just sit in every now and then...”

“You know I'm not fit for it,” Kíli says, frustrated. “I'm still dreaming sometimes. I'll be here, in Erebor, safe, but my mind thinks I'm in the battle again. I see my fellows, I know they're Dwarves, but they feel like Orcs and Goblins, and I reach for my bow or my sword before I even know what I'm doing. I find myself in places and I don't know how I got there. I dream, and I'm back on the battlefield. And when I wake up, I'm still there.” 

“You're isolating yourself,” Ori argues. “That's not helping.”

“Nothing helps!” Kíli stands again, and rests his head against the stones of the entryway, his knuckles white as he grips the frame. “Nothing bloody helps.”

Ori wishes the smell of the stew wasn't still turning his stomach, because it's distracting, but the whole kitchen reeks of it now. “The Elves could help. That woman, Tauriel, she saved you once before..”

“Fíli won't tell the Elves he needs help, that we are less than them in any way, you know -”

“I know he'll do anything for you.” 

Kíli turns, and opens his eyes, almost kissing the stone itself when he says, “If you ask him to, he will.”

“Stop it,” Ori says, drinking more tea. 

“He trusts you,” Kíli reminds him. “We've always been able to depend on you, Ori. He's only just now seeing it, but I've always known it.” He doesn't sit back down, so Ori rises and goes to him, resting against Kíli's back, desperate to comfort his friend. “You're right, I need help. From the Elves. From Tauriel. Or I'm just going to get more lost.” He reaches back, so Ori takes his hand, and they stand like that for a time. “I don't want to be lost.” 

“I'll help you,” Ori replies. 

“I want to be all the way there when Fíli has to tell Mother he got you in trouble.” 

That makes Ori laugh at least, even though he still wants to cry a bit. Because it's funny, but it might not be. He might be in trouble. He might really be in trouble.

Ori asks Fíli that evening, after he's finished telling him the progress of the builders in the lower neighbourhoods. “You need to invite the Elf-woman here. The Captain who fought with us, the one who saved Kíli.” 

“I know Tauriel's name, Ori,” Fíli drawls, leaning over the fireplace. “Why do I need to invite her here?” 

“Because Kíli needs help, and our healers don't know how to fix him. She might.” Fíli doesn't seem swayed. He hasn't forgotten the cells either. “Please?” 

“Did you just say _please_ to me?” Fíli demands, and chuckles. “Must be important then.” Ori touches his belly unconsciously, and then he has to look down at his papers again. How is he going to tell Fíli, if he is? Fíli doesn't want his heir carried by a 'Ri. He doesn't want Ori. Ori doesn't want him either. “Fine. Write a missive, I'll sign the bloody thing. But tell her she's to come alone. And don't word it so Thranduil thinks he has a chance of getting back in my good graces.” 

“We're going to have to, eventually,” Ori reminds him, putting the other matter out of his mind. “He was our ally before the dragon.”

“Was he mad before the dragon?” Well, he has a point there. 

“I don't know. I could ask Balin.” Even now, Balin has to rest. The healers are hopeful now though that Balin will make a full recovery by the end of the year. “His son, Legolas, he's not as bad. We can negotiate with him. And you have to let it go eventually, or we'll have another war.”

Fíli pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do you insist on being so bloody reasonable all the time? It's annoying.” 

“Then take another scribe on,” Ori replies, just as reasonably. 

“Should I bed that one too?” Fíli asks the fire in a low voice, but Ori still hears. He's tempted to gather his things and go, especially after his conversation with Kíli earlier. He doesn't want to think about Fíli being jealous or possessive over him, because that brings up that night and that brings up the other thing. In any case, Fíli quickly follows with, “That was out of line. I'm sorry. I'm tired, and you know I get stupid when I'm tired.” Before Ori can reply, he quickly says, “None of your usual insults needed, I would think.”

He wouldn't have apologised to Ori before, or if he had, he wouldn't have sounded sincere. “I'll tell Kíli you said yes.” 

“I'll tell him myself, in the morning. He's going to stop avoiding me, if I have to chain him up.” 

“He just doesn't like you seeing him weakened.” 

There's a glass of something on the mantle, and Fíli takes a long drink of it. “Why can he be weak in front of you, then?” 

“Because he looks up to you,” Ori says. “We were always on more even ground. He was stronger, I was smarter. He feels like he can tell me the truth, and I won't think less of him. Granted, I did once catch him with that Firebeard lass, and he was so startled he dropped her and fell into the mud.” Ori had laughed until his stomach hurt while the lass in question stomped off in a huff. If he had been dropped, he probably would have done the same. 

“I knew he tumbled her,” Fíli says to himself, smirking. “He's such a bad liar.” 

He comes over to Ori, and before either of them think, he's placed his palm across the back of Ori's neck. It's like the night that mistake happened, and if Ori wasn't very sure that mistake has borne consequences, he knows he would turn his head up, and Fíli would kiss him. He knows they'd make that mistake again. 

But now someone else has expressed the same suspicions Ori has, so now, he shrugs Fíli off. “Don't,” he says. 

“Why not?” Fíli asks, and Ori can clearly see him sitting up in his great big bed that morning as Ori frantically dressed, the way he'd watched Ori. 

“I told you to forget it,” Ori reminds him, and Fíli might be an arrogant sod on his bad days, but he's respectful of Ori at the very least. He finds his own side of the room again, leaving Ori be. “I'll send the message to Tauriel in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Fíli replies, his tone distant. 

Ori studies his papers with more attention than they deserve. Taxes and negotiations and missives. He's been reading these same things for months now. He hardly needs to scan half of them to know what they say. Who knew the court was so tedious? “We need to lean on the Miners' more. The mines are important, but living quarters more so, and Bard needs more workers in the fields.”

“We're _Dwarrows_ ,” Fíli emphasizes. 

“And our people need full bellies,” Ori replies. “Once the Men have returned, he won't need us so much, but for now, he needs help on the boats and in the fields. We have the hands. If you ask it, our people will provide.” 

“Why does it always have to be me who asks?” 

It's because of Fíli's hand on his neck, because of his fear, that he snaps, “I'm not going to bed everyone in Erebor for you!” 

“I'm not asking you to!” Fíli snaps back. 

And that's jealousy there, not just anger. Ori cannot lie to himself about it. 

“Just ask,” Ori says quietly. “You're their beloved king. They'll lower their pride if you ask.” And it's stupid, but when Fíli looks at him, his profile sharp in the firelight, Ori says, “Please Fíli, ask them yourself. They love you. Ask nicely, but ask. Please don't start a fight.” It's stupid. It's so very stupid. What sway does he have over a king? They fucked once, just the once, and they weren't even friends before it. “They trust you.”

“Do you?” Fíli asks, after a pause. “Do you trust me?”

Ori nods. “With my life.” Because underneath it all, he's known he could trust Fíli. Fíli is a king born, and he might be arrogant and stupid and selfish at times, but Fíli is a king. He's a king. He's Ori's king. 

That has nothing to do with his other potential problem.

“Sometimes I don't understand you,” Fíli says, finishing his glass. 

“I'm surprised you ever understand me,” Ori replies. “You do a fine job of pretending otherwise.”

“Only when you're requiring me to think.” The city clock sounds at the same time the one in Fíli's room does, marking the hour as later than either of them should be awake. “You should go to sleep,” Fíli says. 

Ori is already packing his things. “I'll see you in the morning, Fíli.” 

He doesn't see Fíli in the morning though. It's one of the days Bofur has decided to stay for breakfast with him, and where usually Ori doesn't mind, this morning his head is aching from a bad night's sleep and it's making him irritable. He's taking his tea when Bofur says, “I think you need to see a healer, Ori.”

“I'm fine,” Ori replies. The plain, bitter tea actually helps his stomach. He's drunk so much tea in these past few weeks, it's no wonder he cannot sleep. “Just ill.”

Bofur exhales loudly. “You need to see a healer,” he says more firmly. “My brother has nine children with a tenth on the way. Trust me when I say that you need to see a healer.” 

The implication isn't lost, but it's far too early in the morning to think about these things. “I don't.”

“Ori, see a damn healer,” Bofur insists. “You and I both know what's wrong with you. You've been ill for weeks. You scrubbed the rooms down twice now. You've been...Mahal, see a healer.” 

He's Nori's best friend. Nori loves him as much as Nori can love someone not his family and not his heart. He's trying to look out for Ori, is all. And even he sees what Ori refuses to, it might be time to face the truth.

So Ori goes to the healers. They fuss over him, befitting his status as a hero of Erebor. They make him take a foul-tasting drink, and take the results after an hour or so, the potion rushing through his system faster than spirits. They touch him everywhere, making him uncomfortable and even more irritable. Finally, one takes a funny device not dissimilar from Óin's hearing horn, and presses it to Ori's belly. They listen, and nod decisively, speaking in Iron Hills Khuzdul to their fellow healers. He doesn't understand the dialect well enough to know what they're saying. He's never felt so stupid as he does then, as they talk over his head. 

They keep speaking in that dialect even when he tells them he cannot understand them. He grew up in Ered Luin, and even his mother and Dori spoke in Ered Luin dialect from when Ori can remember. Ori doesn't understand this proper dialect. The words are wrong, the sound wrong. 

“This is good,” one finally says in thickly accented Common, patting Ori's shoulder. “This very good. Hero of Erebor, having baby in Erebor. Yes, this is good.” 

Ori swallows. “What? What do you mean?” 

Finally, it seems to sink through their thick heads that he really could not understand them before. “You are bearing,” the other says, clearly, as though they have to think about the words. “Harder to tell with you. But we hear it, yes? And we feel it. You pass test. You have bearing signs.” They press their palm against Ori's belly, and yes, that's been another thing he's denied, how there are changes in his shape. “You will bear in the autumn. A baby.” There's no mistaking that, no misunderstanding. 

The healer steps away, and Ori covers his belly with his own hands. 

“All good, yes?” the first healer says. “You are healthy. Very young, but healthy. Baby will be healthy. Nothing to worry for, except happy sire.” 

“Thank you,” Ori manages, and pays the fee. The healers seem confused, but then he guesses most are happy over this news. 

Once he's back in the house, hardly remembering the walk home, he's restless. He walks from room to room of the big old place, remembering the stories Dori and their mother had told about the 'Ri family in Erebor. Their mother had always seemed to start the story with, _“When I was still beautiful...”_ and Ori had never understood. He's always thought his mother was beautiful, because she is. 

But now he looks at the wealth she had once commanded, and understands her a little better. Plain braids and second-hand clothes would never be pretty to her. He hopes she'll be happy to be back here. 

Dori's not here though. Neither is Kori. Nori is who knows where. Maybe she'd rather live somewhere else. 

He never knew his sister. Nori remembered her a little. 

Ori has to write his mother, tell her. She'll want to know. No, he shouldn't, actually. She'll feel she has to come with the next caravan, and Ori doesn't want her to risk travelling in the cold. Maybe he should return to Ered Luin, but that won't do either. He has responsibilities here, even if he doesn't particularly like them. He can't leave Kíli like this, and...he can't leave Fíli either. 

How to tell Fíli? He has to tell Fíli. Fíli is the _king_. 

What have they done? 

Bofur returns to the house sometime after the tenth bell. Ori is pacing in the kitchen, chewing on his nail, an old habit. When he sees Ori, he sits down, his elbows on the table. Ori still doesn't know how to say it aloud, but his behaviour a good enough answer for Bofur. “Anyone special?” he asks, trying to joke, but Ori's not in the mood. He sits down, and Bofur reaches over, tries to encourage Ori's fingers around his own.

“Everyone told me I'd be fine until I came of age,” Ori says, struck by the absurdity of his life. He's a bloody scribe, and now he's a hero of Erebor, a confidante of the king, and...this is mad. 

“Sometimes it comes early,” Bofur suggests. He's still trying to hold Ori's hand. If he had held Ori's hand in Ered Luin, Ori thinks his heart might have stopped beating altogether. For a moment, he struggles to find those feelings again, that thing he thought might be his love, and holds Bofur's hand. 

When Fíli held him, it was like being on solid ground again for the first time since he'd seen Dori's body amongst the dead laid out. 

“I don't know what to do,” Ori confesses. 

“You're a hero of Erebor.” Bofur hasn't let go. “Can do whatever you like. Could raise the babe up as just yours, or name the sire.”

Ori shrugs. He doesn't know how Fíli will react to this, funny, because he's known Fíli his whole life. This is just one more thing that Fíli will have to deal with it, and he's already shouldering so much weight. Ori could claim a different sire, but what if the baby looks like Fíli? He'll know, and he'll be furious, and he'll never trust Ori again. 

He has to be told. What if he thinks Ori let this happen on purpose? He doesn't want Fíli to think he's manipulating him. He hardly knows how he feels about this at all. Ori doesn't feel old enough to have a child. He's sure no one else will think he is. 

“Do you love him?” Bofur startles him out of his agonizing, and he almost laughs. Does he love Fíli? He spent half his childhood hating Fíli, and the other half ignoring him. Mahal, why had they done that? Why hadn't he been careful? 

“No,” Ori says. “It was just the one time. A mistake.” 

He needs to tell Fíli. 

“Ori, if you'd like...I mean, if it's something you'd be willing to consider...” Bofur yanks his hat off his head, smoothing his braids down. “You don't love the sire, you say, but if you were thinking you didn't want to do this alone, if you wanted to name someone...well, Ori, if you wanted...” He covers their joined hands, and says, very seriously, “Ori, I'd marry you, if you want.” 

It's not anything Ori expected him to say right now. He means it, he's asking Ori and he means it. 

He licks his lips, and stands, withdrawing from Bofur. “I need to speak to someone,” he says, and nothing else. He can't say anything else.

He needs to see Fíli.

So he goes to the palace, goes right up to Fíli's room. He needs to see him. Once they speak, everything will be better, will make more sense. 

He raises his hand, knocks on the door, and for some reason, he remembers being little, and knocks half a song.

The other half knocks back before the door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW WITH FUTURE ART!
> 
> [Happy family!](http://asparklethatisblue.tumblr.com/post/90962464333/fili-ori-and-their-children-dirin-torin-and)


	3. Chapter 3

It's the middle of the night, and Fíli is still awake, the trade agreements in front of him refusing to make sense. He needs to just set it aside for Ori to look at in the morning, but he'd like to think he's smart enough to actually do this on his own. He was supposed to do it this morning, but he hadn't shown. Instead a missive had come from his home excusing himself, claiming he needed to see the healers.

That works at Fíli in a way it shouldn't. Ori's been pale as of late, and tired, circles under his eyes. He's snapped at Fíli more than usual lately too, but been much quicker to apologise for his poor mood than he ever has before. He's hardy ever apologised to Fíli before. He just looks so tired all the time, and Fíli doesn't know what to do. He knows what he'd like to do, but Ori hasn't seemed too open to that. 

If Ori is ill, Fíli doesn't know what he'll do. That's something he can't fix, and it bothers him. 

Fíli reads the same paragraph twice more, then gives in and calls himself an idiot. He pours himself a drink from the tumbler on the desk, and wishes he had listened more when his uncle and mother had tried to teach him to be a politician. Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult now. 

Despite the hour, someone knocks at his door, so softly he can hardly hear it, the knock half a song. Fíli smiles, relieved, and knocks the other half back before he opens the door. It's Ori on the other side, like he thought, but Ori's not smiling. 

“I need to come in,” Ori says, so Fíli moves aside to allow him, shutting the door firmly. 

Some part of him he keeps hoping he's finally dealt with wonders if Ori has changed his mind. But he doesn't think Ori would look so miserable if that was the case. Maybe something really is wrong. 

“What's happened?” he asks, pouring Ori a drink as well. When he offers it though, Ori shakes his head decisively. “It'll steady you,” he promises, but Ori shakes his head again. “What is it?” 

“We need to talk,” Ori says, more to the fire than Fíli. “About...that...that time...”

Fíli rubs his mouth, then finishes his drink, figuring he needed to be braced. “You're the one who keeps saying we need to forget it.” He's _still_ cannot work out how he feels about that. He had been somewhat relieved at first, but somehow not, and he hadn't liked being so easily rejected. Ori had needed him, and then so easily hadn't, and it had felt unfair. “So why do we need to talk?”

“Because now we can't forget it,” Ori hisses, hugging himself. “We can't.”

“Why not? You seemed to have no trouble before.” That's admittedly cold, but it's not as though that ever effects Ori any more. He's become more attuned to Fíli's shifting moods and temper over these months in Erebor, more so than even Kíli, not that Fíli sees his brother much these days. Kíli prefers to be alone. Fíli doesn't like that rejection any better. “So, what is it?”

To his surprise, Ori comes right into Fíli's space and takes his hand, pressing it hard against Ori's belly. He's begging Fíli to understand with his eyes, and Durin's name, it only takes Fíli a moment for the point to break through the haze of drink and too-little sleep. 

“Mine?” he asks, just to be sure, even though he already knows.

“Who else's?” Ori demands, backing away from him. “I didn't know I was … I hadn't reached my maturity yet, Dori and Nori said I couldn't until then, and I...we weren't thinking. That night. We weren't, and...I don't know what to do.” 

Fíli steps forward, and presses his palm against Ori's belly again. Underneath the fine clothes Ori wears now, he can feel something that wasn't there that night. Ori is soft and small for a Dwarf, the journey hardening him up only a bit. That night, his stomach had been soft, and mostly flat against Fíli. Now though, he feels the swell of it. Enough to be noticeable to him. That's his child, he realizes. That's his child, growing in there, in Ori. His first-born. “It'll be born in the autumn,” he says aloud, amazed. “Near Durin's Day.”

“That's what the healer said,” Ori confirms, smiling a little as he covers Fíli's hand with his own. He's trembling still, despite the half-smile. “What are we going to do?” 

Fíli drops his hand and moves away, trying to straighten his thoughts out. He needs to write his mother, see what she thinks, though he can already feel the smack she's likely going to give him. This will have serious political ramifications too, if he already has an heir. No more lords pushing their children on him. No more worrying over the lineage either. His dynasty will be secure. Durin's line will be strong again. 

He'll have a child.

He's been silent too long, and Ori must think the worst, because he says, “I could go it alone. Or, Bofur offered...”

“Bofur offered _what_?” Fíli demands, suddenly jealous. He's never been this way about anyone before, never. But Ori's changed everything, shifted something in Fíli. Seeing the nobles of Dáin's people flirting with Ori, right in front of Fíli, makes him want to throw the lot of them out of the kingdom, and he's had no right to feel that way.

But now he does. This is _his_. 

“Only...” Ori shifts. “He's Nori's friend, you know. He says he'll take responsibility, and...”

“You told Bofur before me?” Fíli thinks he'll hit the Broadbeam the next time he sees him. Bofur will understand. “Bofur?” 

“I didn't tell him, he suspected,” Ori says, pulling his grey surcoat more tightly around himself. “He's been checking on me, since Nori left. I think Nori asked him to, actually.” It's irrelevant to the conversation, but sometimes Ori does that. “He suspected, and told me I needed to see the healer.” 

“Did you...?”

“He doesn't know it's you,” Ori says, clearly attempting to sound bright. “So, if you don't want to, we never have to tell a soul.”

That's not what he wants, and damn, he must really be rattled, because Ori can usually lie much better than that. He wants Fíli's help, and really, doesn't Fíli owe it to him? It's been Ori who has sat up with him, night after night, helping him get through every piece of paperwork. Ori who had been just as determined as him to make Erebor great, to live up to someone else's dream, when no one else understood. 

And he's just as much a part of this. That child is as much his as it is Ori's, and Fíli will be damned before he sees his child claimed by another. 

“That's my child,” he says aloud. “Not Bofur's.” 

“So what do you want to do?” Ori asks again.

Fíli embraces him, and isn't surprised when Ori clings to him, still trembling. “We'll figure it out,” he promises. “We'll ask Balin. He'll know what to do. And I'll write my mother.” That seems to help, Ori relaxing by infinitesimal amounts against Fíli. 

He's warm and soft against Fíli after a few minutes, but still shaking.

“I want Dori,” he says into Fíli's shirt, and Fíli holds him tighter. 

“I know,” he says, trying to soothe him. “Trust me, I know.” He's wanted Thorin so much these past few months, wanted his uncle here to guide him, tell him what to bloody do. Especially now. Now he wants Thorin to tell him what to do. He wants Thorin to tell him why holding Ori helps. Why he can have Ori resting against his chest, clutching him for dear life, and feel better. 

Ori is breathing more evenly now, still holding onto Fíli. “Kíli knows too. And before you get angry, I didn't tell him either. He guessed.” 

He might be, just a little “Anyone else know before me?”

“No.” 

“Good,” Fíli says, holding Ori tightly to him. “Damn. A baby.” He tries to imagine a baby, his baby. Brown hair, red, blond, or black? Between the pair of them, it could be any of them. Strong nose, but what about the jaw? Happy, bright? Quiet? Smart? “Our baby.”

Against his chest, Ori exhales. “I wasn't trying, you know.” 

Fíli chuckles, burying his face in Ori's hair. “Anyone says differently, I'll have them killed,” he promises, meaning every word for the time being. “It'll be all right. We'll work this out.” Right this moment, all that matters is that Ori is in his arms, and their child is here, forming in Ori, and again, it's Ori who needs Fíli to be something less than a king. He needs Fíli to be Fíli, and it's as though a weight has rolled off of him to stand here like this. “Thorin was always worried I'd manage something like this, you know.” Getting someone in trouble before marriage, that is. Fíli had always sort of worried about it himself. “I think he might have worried it would be you.”

Because more than once, Thorin had cautioned him about Ori, usually while they were working in the forge, where Fíli's mother couldn't overhear. Warning him to stop teasing the 'little 'Ri', that 'Ri could bear, that Ori was very young and Dori was rather good with a flail. Fíli had always scoffed, rolled his eyes at his uncle. 

But there had been one time, one time he remembers now in a way that almost hurts, he had said, “I'm not interested in Ori, Uncle.” He had teased Ori by nicking his sketchbook and holding it out of reach until Ori had come close enough that Fíli could get him in a lock, laughing until Ori stomped on his foot and elbowed him hard in the stomach. Just teasing. And Thorin had looked up at him over the set of tools he was cleaning, and said, _“Then stop going 'round to their shop.”_ Fíli had been uncomfortable enough to let the silence stay, but he'd still gone to the shop for a drink, still teased Ori just for the fun of it. 

“What do you want, Fíli?” Ori says, still speaking into Fíli's shirt. Fíli lets go of Ori's waist, so he can unclench Ori's fingers and kiss one of his wrists reassuringly. Ori looks up at him, his eyes red-rimmed and wet still. “What do you want me to do?”

Fíli touches their foreheads together. “What do you need me to do?” he counters. 

Ori sniffs, and shrugs. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Of course,” Fíli agrees readily. He's not sure he would have let Ori leave anyway, now that he's come back to Fíli, and not quite alone. “Bed's too big any way.” 

“It's ridiculous,” Ori agrees. “What was Dáin thinking?”

Fíli shrugs. “I'm not so sure Dáin does a lot of thinking in general,” he says, and Ori snorts, ducking his head for a moment. When he looks up at Fíli, he's almost smiling. “There we are.” He cups Ori's face, tilting his head up and making a show of looking him over, just to tease. “I was worried about you, you know. You've been pale.” 

“Everyone has noticed, apparently,” Ori groans. “The healers said it had something to do with what I'm eating.” 

Once Fíli has found a nightshirt for Ori, Ori rejecting trousers to go with it, and they've both washed up and crawled into bed, Fíli asks, “So what did the healers say exactly? About what you should be eating? Or did they say other things?” He's curious, desperately so in a way he doesn't quite understand just yet. But that's his child, and Ori is carrying it in himself, and Fíli wants to know what Ori needs. Maybe not just for the child. 

He reaches out, cupping Ori's face, then dares to move down to his belly. There's definitely a change, and Fíli finds breathing a bit difficult as he spreads his fingers to encompass the swell. Ori covers his hand again, and Fíli's not opposed to that. It feels good to be touched. No one touches him any more. “I need to eat more green food. I never used to like it, but now I want it all the time.”

“Really? What?” 

“Kale, mostly. And spinach. Dori used to grow it in our plot, and I never liked it then, but now I want it.” 

Fíli nods. “I'll tell the kitchens.” Likely, they won't even need to be told. He imagines Bombur already knows what Ori is going to need, and will handle it. 

Ori closes his eyes and smiles. “And clotted cream on scones. But the healers said I needed meat, too. I want venison all the time. There was this venison stew my mother and Dori used to make, with nettles and -”

“Nettles and turnips and barley,” Fíli finishes, nodding. “I loved that stew.” He and Kíli could have eaten four bowls each when the shop served it, Thorin and Dwalin and their mother easily keeping up with them. 

“Everyone loves that stew,” Ori replies. “People would fight over what was left at the end of the day. Dori used to have throw people out.” Now he winces, closing his eyes, as he says, “One time, this guard decided to try and steal a kiss from Dori when Dori was pushing them out.” 

“How many bones did Dori break?” Fíli asks, amused. 

“Just their nose,” Ori says, but then says, “Unfortunately for them, Nori was home at the time.” 

Fíli smirks. “And how many bones did Nori break?”

“He dislocated their shoulder before Dori told him he could stop.” Fíli can just imagine Dori standing by imperiously while Nori twisted someone's arm behind their back until they apologised. 

“What's Nori going to do when he finds out?” Fíli asks, tightening the fingers over Ori's belly briefly. _His baby_. That's his child.

“Before or after he kills you?” Ori asks, and Fíli wants to laugh. He can't remember the last time he felt like laughing. “I don't know, really. You never know with Nori, not these days. Never thought he would leave me, but...here we are.” 

Here they are. 

Ori yawns, covering his mouth when he does. “Sorry, but I'm falling asleep.” 

“Me too,” Fíli confesses. It is late, and they've both had rather busy days, apparently. “We'll talk more in the morning, all right?” 

“All right,” Ori says, nestling down into the pillows. Fíli will admit that it's nice to have more than one pillow on the bed. There's been more than once that he had no pillows at all, and he doesn't doubt it was the same for Ori. It's far better to not be alone though. 

Ori falls asleep quickly, breathing half into his pillows. Asleep, he looks even more tired, his features drawn and pale. Something about it has Fíli daring to cup his face, brushing his thumb over Ori's cheekbone. He's bearing Fíli's babe, and he wants to keep it. He'd even come to Fíli for safety. Not Kíli, not Bofur, or any of the rest of their company, but to Fíli. 

Fíli have a child by the autumn, and while he still hasn't quite worked around his shock enough to know just how he feels, he thinks he's relieved. He's managed to keep Erebor from falling down around them so far, and now Mahal has seen fit to allow a child to be forged. And after just one time, one _mistake_. Fíli had been right all along. It was no mistake. Mahal wanted this. Their Maker wants Fíli to be king, to lead Erebor out of the smoke and pain. 

And all along, he's pushed Ori to Fíli's side. Now he's breathed new life into Ori. Mahal sees all, and he must know best for them. Ori is meant to stand at Fíli's side. 

Carefully, he withdraws his hand, not wanting to disturb Ori. 

He should ask Ori to marry him, set him beside Fíli officially. He sits at Fíli's feet for the most part now, but that won't do any more. He'll need a chair, he'll need beads, jewels. All of Erebor will see how Fíli will honour and protect all that is his. And no lord or lady or noble will dare look at Ori like that damn blue-haired noble of Dáin's does ever again. 

That's all better left for the morning though. For now, he needs to sleep. 

He turns to his back and watches the shadows the fire throws on the ceiling. Tired, he closes his eyes, and for just a moment, entertains the idea of a golden-haired child. Unlikely. Most of Fíli's line is black-haired, and from what he knows of Ori's family, they're usually red-haired. Might even have a mix of Fíli and Ori's colour. 

Doesn't matter, in the end, he decides. He'll take what they're blessed with.

♦

The servant coming in to make up the fire wakes Ori, and when he sits up, confused, she's looking right at him with wide eyes, the basket of wood clutched in her hands still. Self-conscious, Ori wraps his arms around himself, looking over at the other side of the bed. Fíli is gone, so there's no one to hide behind. “Good morning,” he acknowledges her, still polite. Dori would be so upset if he wasn't. 

“M'lord,” she says, bobbing and going about her task. Ori decides to lie back down, his back to her and the covers up to his neck. He feels vaguely ill, but that's been the case for awhile now, long enough he's learned how to put it out of his mind. 

She doesn't say anything else. She's a servant, and if she's making the fires, she's on the lowest rung of the ladder. It's not proper for her to speak to him beyond a greeting, odd as that is for Ori now. 

The door opens again, and he hears the girl murmur, “Your Majesty,” right before the clinking of her tools back into the basket and the rustle of her clothing. The door shuts, and Fíli climbs back into the bed. 

Ori opens his eyes, and finds Fíli looking at his stomach. It makes him nervous, so he fumbles for Fíli's hand under the covers and puts it over his belly again. Through just his borrowed nightshirt, it's easy to feel the changes already happening to Ori's body. It had been easy to blame them on other factors at first; stress, and grief. But it had been harder to deny his belly was swelling when his cheekbones were still all but hollow. Still, he had managed to. 

“Does it move yet?” Fíli asks, his brow furrowed. 

“A little,” Ori replies, scrunching his nose when, under Fíli's hand, the strange fluttering sensation happens again. It started a fortnight ago, an odd occurrence that he had initially chalked up to an anxious stomach. Only now he has to accept what it really is, and that somehow makes it odder. “It feels like I've swallowed a cricket sometimes. Hold on -,” he grabs Fíli's hand, and moves it back, right over where he feels the centre of it. After a moment, it flutters again. “It moves when you do that.”

Fíli's eyebrows go up. “Does it?” He starts to move his hand in a slow circle, and the fluttering picks up, enough so that if this had happened before the healers confirmed it, Ori would have known was no anxious stomach. It's doing it more than it ever has before now, as though it knows Fíli's touch already. Ridiculous notion. “Ori, I'm not trying to...I know it's early, but what do you want to do?” 

Ori's not bothered, despite the hour. After talking and sleeping, he feels calm enough to have this conversation. “I don't really know. I don't want to be alone, I know that. If you decide you don't want to claim it, it's all right. Just, last night, I was frightened, and I wanted to talk to someone, and you had to know, so...” He's not exactly sure just what he's expecting of Fíli. Last night, he had been desperate just to see him, to tell him, because he had somehow convinced himself that Fíli would make it all make sense, would make it right.

He hadn't been wrong, and that's a bit intimidating.

“I want to take care of you, and this child,” Fíli says, after Ori trails off, his hand still making small circles over the spot Ori directed him to. “So maybe what I'm asking is what do you need me to do?” 

Ori shrugs. “I want the baby to have two named parents. I want it to know its lines.” He's not sure what else he should ask for. “I'm not trying to...force anything.” He doesn't want Fíli to think he's trying to make him name the baby as his heir. There's no need for it. He just wants the child to know Fíli. “I _want_ the baby though.” He'd not wanted it the whole time he suspected, but now that he knows, he's clinging to the idea as a lifeline. Someone who wants him, who he can love without worrying. 

Fíli doesn't immediately reply, brow still furrowed. “Would you rather I keep my distance?” 

“I don't know,” Ori says honestly. “I don't think so.” The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn't really want that at all. It seems sort of lonely. “It's yours too. What do you want to do?” 

“It's mine,” he says. He has very blue eyes. Ori never really noticed before, never really cared. He wonders if the baby will have blue eyes. Maybe. His mother's are blue. “I want it to be my heir.” Ori's not sure what to think about that. “We could get married.”

“Really?” Ori sits up on his elbow, leaving the comfortable warmth of the blankets. “Are you sure?” 

Fíli shrugs. “I think you're already doing most of the job of my spouse.” He smirks. “Well, you're carrying my heir, so really, I think you're doing the whole job.” 

“I'm not sleeping with you,” Ori points out, and gets what might pass for a laugh, if someone didn't know Fíli before the Battle. Didn't know how often he had laughed before, how much he had smiled. “I suppose... we could get married. If we have a proper contract.” Dori had made sure Ori understood marriage contracts long before Lord Balin trusted him with any sort of paperwork at all. A contract would be his only security if things went wrong. 

He doesn't think they would. They're not quite friends, but they get on all right. They trust one another, and with all of their supposed 'allies' here, they've found how valuable that is. 

“I need to write my mother and speak to Balin first. But I'll agree to your terms, whatever they are. Not like you're going to ask for the crown. Or my head.” 

Ori wrinkles his nose distastefully. “What would I do with your head?” 

“Mount it,” Fíli says offhandedly. “Mother used to threaten to do it to Uncle.” He doesn't seem sad, for once, when he mentions Thorin. Instead, he seems rather content, his hand still on Ori's belly. 

“I'm not going to mount your head,” Ori says, and covers Fíli's hand with his again. “Are you sure?” 

“I'm sure this is our baby,” Fíli replies, his palm pressing in just a bit. “And I know I can depend on you.” He glances up, meets Ori's eyes. “Do you think you can depend on me?” 

Ori nods, sure he can. Fíli has swiftly become the only person he can depend on fully since Dori's death, and Nori's abandonment. “We should talk to Lord Balin first though, before we get too far in this.”

“See?” Fíli's eyes are intent on Ori's belly, the morning making everything lazy and slow and comfortable, even this. Why shouldn't he look? It's his baby too. Ori will probably feel differently later, but for now, he's all right with this. “You're already doing the job.” That makes Ori laugh.

And Fíli, his eyes crinkling, smiles. 

A real smile. Not the shadow of it that Ori's seen since the Battle, not a smirk or the bitter grin that he's adopted. His smile. Ori hadn't realised he missed it until this moment, and now he leans over, and kisses Fíli on the mouth. 

It's an odd situation, kissing Fíli. He's not bad at it, or anything, but it's more that it's Fíli, and Ori's never exactly thought about kissing him before. Punching him, yes. That time he dumped a bucket of ice water over his head because Fíli was being awful over something Ori cannot even remember any more. Odd, but not bad, not really. He pulls back, and looks down at Fíli, curious and somewhat confused. “It's moving again.” It is. That sensation is definitely movement, Ori is sure. 

“Really?” He reaches out tentatively, glancing up at Ori as though to ask if it was all right. Ori nods, and Fíli presses his palm there again, looking hopeful, but his expression falls after a moment. “I cannot feel anything.” 

“It's too early, I think,” Ori says, trying to reassure him. He hasn't heard Fíli or Kíli happy in a long time, and if the baby makes them happy, well, Ori will take it. 

It makes him happy too, honestly. 

“What do you think it is?” Fíli takes his hand away and gets out of bed, opening his wardrobe. 

“No idea,” Ori replies, shrugging. He should get up too, but he's so tired. “When do you think we should speak to Balin?” 

“Not just yet. He's not his best in the mornings.” He braces his weight on the doors to the wardrobe for a moment. “He called me Frerin, the other day. Realized his mistake, laughed it off, but it was odd. It worries me. Do you think he'll be able to stand as Speaker?” 

Ori shrugs again. “I don't know. Head injuries are funny, Óin says. He thinks Balin is fine, for the most part. Just a little muddled sometimes. Would you say Bifur is mad?” 

“No, but I wouldn't make him Speaker, either,” Fíli says, and it's a bit cruel, but he's not wrong. “Maybe I should appoint someone else, at least for the time being. What about Glóin?”

“The Treasury needs him,” Ori reminds him. “I'd say your mother, were she here yet.” The caravan had sent word just a few days ago. They've not yet reached Mirkwood, the mountain pass holding them up for a fortnight as they cleared a path through the winter snows. They'd avoided Goblin Town, with Ori's directions, not that Goblins would be so stupid as to attack a full caravan of Dwarrows. Goblins are not so arrogant as Orcs. And they had thankfully experienced clear weather for their part. Once they reach Mirkwood, Ori will breathe easier. “Did Thranduil's people write about the spiders yet?” 

“Cleaned out the big nest a fortnight ago, been hunting the stragglers ever since.” Fíli huffs. “I doubt they'll attack a fully armed caravan though, especially with Elf guides. Apparently the Elf Prince volunteered. Imagine him and Gimli meeting.”

Ori groans. “We'll be at war by sundown.” 

“Generous, to give him until sundown,” Fíli quips, choosing something at last. He dresses without shame in front of Ori, not that it matters any more. They saw each other naked plenty on the quest, and besides, what's modesty between them now? “What do you think? That plate armour belt or...” 

“The one Dáin's son gave you,” Ori directs, and Fíli chooses it, buckling it on. The design goes well with the pattern of Fíli's shirt. “You could almost pass for a king.” 

“Do you actually sit around and think of ways to insult me?”

“You usually walk right into them,” Ori replies, pulling his knees up to his chest and grinning when Fíli laughs under his breath. He wonders if Kíli will start to laugh more now as well, if he'll finally start to have his friend back. “I'll write Tauriel today and have it ready for you to sign.” 

Fíli sits on the bed beside him, elbows on knees and very much just Fíli, a boy from Ered Luin, for just a few moments. “Ori, I know we haven't always gotten on. But right now, you're the only person I can depend on fully. And I'll take care of you, and our baby, no matter what you decide. I don't want you to think that you have to do this. Marry me, I mean. Or even...I'm not that traditional, you know, and if you don't want it...” 

“I told you, I want this baby. Do you?” Ori asks, understanding his meaning. He wraps his arms around his knees. He won't be able to sit in this position soon.

“I do,” Fíli nods.

He'd actually smiled, and laughed. And Ori, Ori feels _hopeful_. That's what this is, and this child, he thinks it means just as much to Fíli, thinks he's clinging to the idea as hard as Ori is, because they both need something, anything, to make this feel as though it was worth it. That losing Dori, and Thorin, could be balanced out somehow. That Mahal loved them, wanted this for them. 

“I'll marry you,” Ori confirms, sure of it now, no longer just contemplative. This is how it's going to be, and if it means being Fíli's consort, so be it. At least this way, people like Lord Albin will have to listen to him. He and Fíli will be able to run Erebor properly. “As soon as we can though.”

“I can't get married without my mother,” Fíli protests. “She'll kill me, and you, after the baby is born.” 

“So a fortnight after she arrives,” Ori suggests. “Bad enough it'll be a bolting marriage.” He'd always feared he'd end up with one. The fact Nori hadn't had surprised their mother and Dori, but then, it isn't as though his marriage worked out any way. “I don't want to look as though the babe is a minute away. I don't want to be that 'Ri that forced you at the last moment.” He _cannot_ be that 'Ri. It would kill him. Dori or Nori might have pulled it off, but Ori cannot. 

Fíli says nothing for a moment. He extends a hand, and Ori takes it, intertwining their fingers. “We're not even a century, yet,” he says. “Damn, but we've been stupid.” 

Ori nods. “I should have told you to pull out.”

But Fíli shakes his head. “No, you shouldn't have. Not if we get a child out of it.” 

It's strange, but Ori's not too regretful either now. He's going to have a baby. Someone all his own. Fíli seems to feel the same. “So you really do want this baby?”

“I do.”

“Good,” Ori replies, letting Fíli's hand go when he stands up. “...Good.” He looks up at Fíli, for once admiring him fully. “Kíli and Gimli had a wager going over when we would sleep together, apparently.” 

Fíli scowls. “Who won?”

“Gimli.” 

“Then I'll thrash him twice,” Fíli grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is the matter with the pair of them? Do you know, one time I caught them wagering over which of them could stand on one leg the longest?” 

Ori rolls his eyes. “Once, they wagered over who could catch the most almonds in their mouth.” 

Fíli eyes him. “And who was the one throwing the almonds?” 

“That's not important,” Ori says crisply. “I hadn't had almonds in an age. Do you think Dáin's newest supply wagons have some?” He wants them now that he's thought of them, preferably roasted with sugar. 

“I'll ask Dáin today,” Fíli promises, swooping down to kiss Ori's temple. 

“What was that for?” Ori isn't exactly upset, more confused. Actually, it's nice to be touched. Dori and Nori always used to touch him. So did Kíli. Even Dwalin. 

Fíli sits back down, much closer, gently knocking their foreheads together. “First time I slept through the night in this damn bed was that night. Last night was the second.” 

_Oh_. “I won't leave you alone again.” It's a strange promise to make. They're in a strange situation. _“Do you love him?”_ Of course Bofur would have asked that. It's a perfectly sensible question. 

There's no sensible answer though. Ori hardly knows what he feels towards Fíli any more, especially right now in this moment. He's _bearing_ , and further along than what's proper already. And this Dwarf, this boy, this king, he sired it. Ori has Fíli's child in him, and by the Maker and all his apprentices, Ori is not sure how his world came to this.

He cups Fíli's face, and he knows Fíli well enough to see the overwhelming relief in his features. “I'll take care of you,” Fíli promises in turn. “Anything in my power to give you, you'll have.” 

“Venison stew, with nettles and turnips -” Because _really_ , Ori is desperate for it. 

“And barley,” Fíli finishes, nodding. “I'll send word to the kitchens. You'll have it by midday if I have to kill the deer myself.” 

“That's almost romantic,” Ori teases. 

“That's what I was going for,” Fíli teases back. “You know, the Eastern Dwarrows will likely have almonds.” He's being very sweet. Ori knows why, really, but it's nice. “I'll come for you after midday, or take it with you. Then we'll see Balin.”

“You don't want me to scribe for you today?” He's usually so insistent about Ori being with him. 

“I'm with Glóin and Dwalin again today,” Fíli says. “You can stay here, sleep, if you like.” 

Ori would protest, would hate being so coddled, but he still feels a bit sick if he thinks about it, and he'd much rather stay here in the too-big bed and rest until the initial nausea of the day passes. Too many days he's spent in court, pretending. “I'm going to lie back down,” he says. “And I'm going to stay here until I get my stew, and then we'll speak with Balin.”

How will Balin react? Likely well, if Ori thinks about it. 

After all, it's not just Fíli and him who have needed something _good_.

“Don't thump Kíli just yet,” Ori warns. “Give him some time.” When Fíli quirks an eyebrow, asking a question, he says, “But thrash Gimli when he arrives.”

Fíli smirks. “As you command.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh.

Ori feels the heat of the summer more than anyone else, when the Mountain finally starts to warm. He takes refuge deep in the mountain, in his and Fíli's room, but even in the heart of her, sweat beads on his skin more often than not. Finally, he breaks, and begs for help from the servants that are all but his shadows these days, on Fíli's orders. Ori's still not quite sure what to do with the lot of them, but at this point, he'll take advice from the Ravens if it helps. 

Most of them slip down to who knows where, and when they return, it's with ice wrapped in skins. They take turns pressing it against the back of Ori's bare neck while he lies on his side. “It's not unusual, my lord,” an older one says, Ori miserably curled around a pillow. “You're young, so it's hard on you. My sister was the same way. I used to do this for her. Drink the ginger-water, my lord. It'll help your belly.”

“What about my throat?” His belly and throat have burned for weeks now. 

“Chamomile will help,” the one pressing the ice against his neck says. “And some changes to your food. I could tell the kitchens what you need.” 

Her name is Socorro, it turns out, and she seems to know everything Ori needs before even he does. Ori decides he loves her. Fíli is happy to leave Ori to his whims, so Socorro becomes a regular face amongst the group of servants. On some level, he knows she's looking to secure her own position, but her kindness is appreciated, even if she is somewhat snappish with the guards constantly in attendance. They tend to leer at the servants, her especially.

His belly grows, and the baby moves more, sometimes keeping Ori up and walking back and forth in their newly cleared sitting room. Fíli fusses that Ori needs to sleep, but after Ori snaps at him about it being his child's fault, he quiets on the subject. 

Ori's finally feeling better one night, the hot air of the summer cooled by the rain that's been falling outside the Mountain for three days straight, when Fíli comes in, rolling his shoulders hard, like he's trying to crack them. “Come here,” he calls, and Fíli throws himself onto the bed beside Ori, face down in the pillows. “Bad day?” 

Fíli grunts into the pillow, so Ori starts to run his knuckles up and down Fíli's spine. “I hate being king,” he mutters. “Can I stay here with you?” 

“Socorro will be displeased if you interrupt her routine,” Ori warns him, still rubbing Fíli's back. “Or you could take on her duties instead?” Fíli groans instead of talking. “If it helps, we received word from the caravan. Your mother will be here within the week.” He sits up a bit more, and tugs on Fíli's shirt. “Off.” Fíli groans again, this time more petulantly, but does as he's told so Ori can straddle the small of his back and work the heels of his palms into the tension in the muscle. “She wrote that the traditional vows might be a bit...out of place.” 

Under him, Fíli vibrates with laughter. “Don't think we need the promises of children.” Ori is not big by any means, but at this point, there is little doubt he is bearing. Vows of fertility will have Kíli laughing, even if everyone else can manage to be more polite. “How have you felt today?” He's patiently listened to Ori's own complaints, been more interested than Ori would have thought in fact. “Is your back still bothering you? I could ask Tauriel -”

Ori kisses his own fingers and presses them to Fíli's cheek, something he used to do with Kíli and Gimli. “It's the heat that's killing me,” he says. “I don't see this going any better until it gets cold again.” Gently, he pinches the back of Fíli's neck, and gets a quiet curse. “You couldn't get me in trouble conveniently, could you?”

“I'm marrying you, aren't I?” Fíli reminds him. “I've done my part.” 

Ori pinches him again. “Don't even think about skiving off once its here.”

“No plans to do so,” Fíli says cheerfully, rolling over, so Ori, to his embarrassment, _squeaks_ , as he tries to hold on. He manages, so now he's looking down at Fíli's face. With no ceremony, but admittedly little force, he punches Fíli in the shoulder, Fíli grinning. “How is my bairn today?” 

“Moving.” He takes Fíli's hand and presses it to his belly, but Fíli only frowns. “You cannot feel it?” 

“Nothing,” Fíli confesses, his mouth in a grim line. “Am I doing something wrong?” 

“No,” Ori reassures him, climbing off Fíli and lying beside him on the bed. Fíli turns, moving his hand in circles on Ori's belly. “No one else can either. I think he must be very calm.” Well, he hopes so. Socorro has filled his mind with worries over early babies and colic and everything else under the stone. And though it's true no one else has felt the baby move, part of the reason for that is that Fíli is the only one Ori allows to touch him. “Won't be long before you can though.”

Beside him, Fíli doesn't seem very reassured. “You said that before, back in the beginning.”

“It hasn't been that long since,” Ori says, irritated. “Don't be difficult, I'm not in the mood.” It's been an easier day, but that doesn't mean it's been wonderful, and since Ori had nothing to do with Fíli's state, and Fíli had quite a bit to do with Ori's, his patience only extends so far. “The baby is not ignoring you, you stupid clod.” 

“Maybe it already hates me,” Fíli says, and if he didn't sound so upset, Ori would cuff him. “There are whispers in the Court, you know. About you and the babe.” Ori shrugs, not knowing just what to say to something he already knew about and has been steadfastly ignoring. “Those lords from the North are behind them, as far as I can tell.” 

“Of course they are,” Ori says, closing his eyes. “They were upset enough when you had me at your feet. By your side? They're seething. All they want is an opportunity.” When Fíli frowns, Ori keeps talking. “Fíli, I'm a 'Ri.”

“So?” Because in Ered Luin, it hadn't meant so much.

Ori holds Fíli's hand over his belly, smiling, even though he knows it doesn't reach his eyes. “We were whores in Erebor. Famous for being whores, even. Most never minded.” Fíli's hand circles slowly, his blue eyes intent on Ori's belly, on their baby. “People like those lords though, like Lord Albin...if he had grown up in Erebor, it would be different. But in the North, they...whores are seen as less than cattle in the North. They think I'm a liar who slept with the whole Company and is naming you because it's most beneficial.”

“That's not you,” Fíli refutes. “If it could have been anyone else, you would have gone to them before me.” He's being self-deprecating, but Ori can't let him, not in this. 

“I would have come to you first,” he says, and sees Fíli's shoulders relax. “This baby is ours. I wasn't with anyone else.” That really does bother Ori, that Fíli might doubt Ori even now. He cannot really prove anything until the baby is born, and even then, they might not look anything like Fíli or Ori. “How bad do you think the ceremony is going to be?” 

“We don't have the resources for much.” That's almost reassuring. 

“There should be a proper feast though. And a day of rest for the miners,” Ori says aloud, even if a proper feast is daunting. The fields and the livestock and most other jobs couldn't have much rest yet, not with the food situation so precarious, but the miners have been working more hours than not in the day since the moment they could. “Gimli will be here too, you know.” 

“Never thought I'd miss him so much,” Fíli confesses, tucking an arm under his head. Ori won't let him fall asleep like this, not still in his boots. But it'll be all right to let him rest here for a time. Besides, Ori likes the company. Being near Fíli is comforting, most of the time. “I think it'll be good for Kíli too. He's still not himself.” 

The door opens without a knock, startling them both, but it's only Socorro, carrying the tea tray herself for once. When she sees Fíli, she curtsies as best one can with a tray before entering, but speaks to Ori. “I brought your tea, sir.” 

Fíli sits up, swinging his legs off the bed. “I'll handle it,” he offers cheerfully. “You can leave for the night.” He thinks to look to Ori after, asking for approval. Since Fíli's apparently in a generous mood, Ori nods, content for it to just be the two of them. 

Socorro frowns though, surprising Ori a little. He'd of thought she'd be glad to have a night to herself, she's been working so hard. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she says, bowing properly. “My lord.”

“Good night,” Ori says, curious about her mood. Maybe she doesn't think Fíli can handle things on his own. It's not uncommon amongst the servants that have slowly trickled into Erebor, looking for positions. They can never seem to wrap their heads around the idea Fíli and Kíli had grown up cleaning their own house and helping to cook and working.

She leaves, the door shutting quietly behind her, her expression still drawn. Fíli doesn't seem to notice as he pours Ori's tea and adds the cream without being asked. “When did you start noticing how I take my tea?” 

“You drink so much of it, I'd have to be blind not to,” Fíli replies, raising the cup and scowling. “But I don't advise drinking this. The bloody cream has gone off.” He tosses it into the fire and pours Ori a fresh cup, this time plain, tossing the rest of the cream away as well. “Why don't you take sugar any more?”

“Sweet makes me sick now,” Ori confesses, sitting up to take the cup. Despite how hot he is all the time, his fingers and toes are always cold. The cup feels good in his hands, and the bitter tea is calming on his stomach. “Why don't you take cream?” Because Fíli usually puts three or four spoonfuls in one cup, but never cream. Ori's not sure how he stands it. 

“I hate milk,” Fíli says, holding the cup in both hands and taking a long drink. “Don't have the stomach for it. And I can always smell it when it starts to go off. It's rancid to me.” He sprawls out beside Ori on the bed again, holding his cup high and somehow not spilling much. “Plenty of deer shot today. They've become a nuisance in years past, so the Men of Laketown are quite happy to provide you with all the venison you can eat.” 

“Venison stew,” Ori all but praises. “Did you get any? Or were you stuck in Court again?” 

Fíli holds up two fingers, grinning, obviously pleased with himself. “I took Dáin and some of his party out. They enjoyed themselves, and I loved getting to be outside. I've missed the open air. Didn't even mind the rain, and it stopped a few times.” 

“I miss being out of doors, but it's too hot,” Ori whines, finishing his tea and placing the cup on the bedside table. “It might be nice on horseback, though.”

“Absolutely not,” Fíli says very finally. “The healer forbid it.” He finishes his own tea, and tugs Ori down onto the bed with him. He still hasn't put a shirt on, so Ori ends up with his cheek against Fíli's bare collarbone. “Besides, it would require you to leave the bed for more than three hours.” 

“Sometimes I sleep on the chaise,” Ori replies, moving off on him and resting on the cool pillows instead. “I hate being so tired all the time. I can hardly concentrate on the letters of the papers most of the time. Kíli has to read aloud to me.” He frowns, not sure what to say about that. Kíli means well, but he's easily distracted still. On the other hand, Tauriel says it's good for his mind, helping him put things back in order. “It'll be easier after the baby is born. I'll get back to normal, and...” 

“You'll get back to properly hating me, you mean,” Fíli says, rolling on to his side so his back is to Ori. “Damn it, how are we going to be married, Ori? Half the time I think you still hate me.” 

It's not a bad question, nor is it an easy one. Having a child isn't going to make them any less who they are, and if they're going to run Erebor as well as raise a baby, they're going to have to make a marriage work. And even if they're easy now, Ori cannot promise they will stay that way when they don't have an outside enemy to band against. 

He thinks to touch Fíli's bare back, to try and reassure him, but before he decides on it, Fíli sits up and gets out of the bed. Ori watches as he takes his boots and trousers off , standing naked in the firelight for a minute. He's harder than he was in Ered Luin. Erebor has changed them, but Ori's not sure if the changes will make them any more compatible than they were before. Maybe they'll just end up fighting all the time, as they did back home.

“I'm bearing, Fíli, I hate everyone most of the time,” he says, attempting to lighten things, but it doesn't work. 

“I need a wash,” Fíli says, interlacing his fingers behind his head. 

There's no talking to him now. He's descended into what Ori privately thinks of as his 'Thorin moods', where he thinks he looks like some story-king while brooding and sulking. It annoys Ori that he actually does. 

“Do you want me to do your braids after?” Ori offers.

“If you're still awake when I come out,” Fíli answers.

Ori wants more tea, but the effort to get out of bed isn't worth it. He falls asleep before Fíli comes back to bed, and by the time he wakes, Fíli's side of the bed is cold when Ori presses his palm to it. For all he knows, Fíli never came to bed at all. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk, but not as much lately. He really did work himself up into a sulk. “You are not allowed to be so stupid,” Ori tells his belly. “I will disown you.” 

After a few minutes of lying in bed and wondering if it's worth the effort to get up, there's a knock. Socorro lets herself in, and just herself. “Where is everyone?” he asks, when she shuts the door behind herself, once again balancing a tray of tea on her own.

“Three are ill, and the other two were called to the kitchens,” she answers, setting the tray down on the little table. “The guards are changing shifts.” She sounds irritated, but Ori is sympathetic. If three are ill, she'll have more work than she can handle, even when the other two come back from whatever they're up to downstairs. “You seem well this morning, my lord.” 

Surprisingly, he does feel well. It's been a long time since he woke up with any energy at all, much less with an appetite. “I think I want breakfast this morning, actually,” he says, happy. Perhaps he's finally moving out of the worst of it, as everyone said. The baby is even moving today. “Do you know, the healers told me others will be able to feel the baby soon? I think it will make His Majesty happy.” It would at least make Fíli stop sulking for a moment.

“You are getting further along, aren't you?” she comments, but doesn't say anything more. 

Ori knows she's busy, but it disappoints him. There really aren't many people to talk to throughout the day. Everyone is so caught up in the rebuilding, there's no time for just talking. 

She sorts through his clothing while he brushes his hair and fixes his braids. He's been given some very pretty beads since the news was announced, and since he feels so well today, he wants to go out. “Could you pick something blue? I want to wear gold and blue today.” Fíli's colours, not his own, but if he's going out and the Northern nobles are spreading rumours, he'd like some of the safety Fíli can provide. “Socorro, have you heard any rumours from the servants of the Norherners?” 

She doesn't pause in her task, laying out a blue surcoat embroidered with gold thread to lay over a white shirt. “Whatever I have heard isn't anything you need to hear, sir.” 

“But I want to.” Ori threads one sapphire bead through the end of the braid on the right side of his face, then finishes with a gold clasp, doing the same on the other side. “Tell me, please.” 

She closes the door to the wardrobe, her back to Ori.“Some of the esteemed nobles of the Northern Courts say the babe could just as easily been sired by any of the rest of the Company. There's talk of it being Kíli's, or one of the 'Ur men. Or even one of Dáin's soldiers. With the loss of your older brothers, there's the idea that you knew your place had to be secured.” 

“And?” Because there's more. There's always more. 

He stands so she can hand him his clothes. He's just pulled his fresh shirt over his head when she says, “There's talk about His Majesty. That he's too gold-blind to see you manipulating him. That he's weak.” 

Ori's heart sinks. “Fíli is strong.” 

She doesn't acknowledge he's spoken. “They make jokes about cutting the babe from your belly, and showing it to be a black-haired Broadbeam, or a red-haired Firebeard. Jokes, or perhaps not.” She does not meet his eyes, her concentration on undoing the laces of his surcoat. 

There's something very odd about her tone.

He takes a step away from her without thinking, his arms folding over his belly protectively. “The baby is Fíli's. Black-haired, golden-haired, or red, Fíli sired it.” Because it's the truth. It's the damned truth, and Ori is not a liar, he isn't. 

“Of course, sir,” she says, and Ori realizes how very alone they are, whereas they never have before. “You didn't take your tea as usual last night. Trust His Majesty to be so stupid he cannot remember how you take your damn tea.” 

“It smelled off,” Ori tells her, backing further away. “I drank it plain.” He wants to cry, as he tries to find somewhere away from her, but she's blocking the door. “You poisoned it.” And it's his own fault. He pressed for her to be trusted, until someone listened, and she was alone with his food, with him. “You were trying to kill my baby.”

“Likely it would have killed you as well,” she says mildly. “You're just a 'Ri though. Not much of a loss.”

“You took care of me,” Ori reminds her desperately. “You've been kind to me.” Because she has, hasn't she? They all have. “I don't understand.” 

“Are you really this naïve?” she asks, scowling. “You little idiot, everything I have done was so I could do as ordered, and secure the purity of Durin's Line.” She's still blocking the door, and even though he's bigger, he worries what will happen if he comes closer to her. He can survive an attack. His babe might not. “Even if it is the king's, it's tainted by 'Ri blood, and the king will see reason once you are no longer here to poison his mind.” 

Ori laughs dryly. “If you think I have _any_ influence over Fíli's mind, you're mad. He's only marrying me for the baby, anyone can tell you! Any member of the Company can tell you we cannot stand one another -!” He'll say anything if it means she'll stop, that she won't hurt them.

She only hitches a shoulder. “And yet you share quarters, and when the girl comes in to light the fire, he is often wrapped around you. He kisses you good-bye in the mornings, often. Cares for you.” This is true, but it's wrong as well, it's very wrong. Fíli has nightmares, more often than not, but Ori's presence soothes them, and he's always loved to tease Ori. A kiss is only ever a joke for him. “It matters not. Either way, that creature and you must go.” 

“No,” Ori refuses. “No, you won't hurt my baby.” 

“This really isn't any choice of yours,” she replies, and out of her apron pocket, produces a blade Ori knows is long enough and sharp enough it will kill them both easily. 

“Please,” he pleads. “Please, no, don't do this.” 

But she intends to, he can see it in her face, and he has nothing, no weapon, no guard, nothing at all until his hip brushes the table. Without thinking of the consequences, without caring, he grabs the teapot in both hands, scalding his palms, and tosses the contents in her direction. She tries to shield herself, but the still-steaming tea hits her full in the face, and she howls in pain as he scrambles to escape, running out into the hall, and straight into Tauriel's tall figure. 

Ori almost sobs with relief, until he really is sobbing, as Tauriel shouts for the guards, holding him tightly to her while she does. Socorro is dragged out of the room, her skin already reddened and clearly painful, while Tauriel shields Ori. Socorro spits at the ground and screams as she's chained and dragged away, and even after everything she has done, Ori hates the sound of her pain, of anyone's pain. 

“Did she hurt you?” Tauriel asks urgently, kneeling so they're level. “Ori, did she give you any food or drink, did she touch you at all?” He shakes his head, and she seems to almost fall in relief. “Thank the Valar for their favours.” 

“She was going to kill me and them,” he cries, frightened. 

“No one will ever come so close again,” she promises him. “Has someone gone for the king?” she demands of the guards. “Send for him now, before he starts killing everyone in sight!”

His hands are being bandaged by the time Fíli comes, sweeping into the room with his fur-lined coat puffing him up like an angry cat. _A lion_ , Ori thinks distantly. Everyone in the room tenses at his entrance, as he stands in the middle of the room, looking around at the lot of them, one by one, as they all shrink under his glare. “Who let this happen?” he demands, but no one can answer. 

No one but Ori. “I did,” he admits quietly, though he might as well be shouting in the silent room. “I liked her. I trusted her and let her in the room alone.” He cannot look at Fíli, ashamed at his own foolishness. “I was so stupid, I'm so sorry, Fíli -”

Fíli comes and kneels before Ori, pressing his mouth against one injured palm. He reaches up and cups Ori's face as Ori starts to cry again, pulling him down so their temples touch. “Are you all right? Did she do this to you?” He means Ori's hands, so Ori shakes his head. 

“I didn't have anything at hand, so I grabbed the teapot and threw the tea in her face,” he says. “It burned my hands a bit.” 

Still kneeling, Fíli smirks, and kisses the other burned palm. “You threw hot tea on her?”

“It was all I could think of,” Ori says, still crying, despite himself. “I didn't have a weapon, and she did.” 

“Hopefully the baby is half as clever as you,” Fíli says, enfolding Ori's hands in his and pressing his temple against them before his mouth. “The Maker and all his apprentices willing.” He glances up and around at everyone else in the room. “Unless you can make yourself useful, get out of my sight, all of you.” 

Most of them make for the door, all but Óin, Tauriel, Kíli, and Dwalin. 

Tauriel steps forward, Dwalin only half a second behind her. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Tauriel says, without pause. “I was not quick enough this morning -”

“I am responsible for the guards,” Dwalin cuts her off. “This fault is mine more than it is yours, Captain.” He nods to Tauriel, then bows to Fíli, bending at the knee even, as he would have for Thorin. “The guard change was slow this morning. There's illness, and I was lacking in my duties. I should have personally been here.” 

“I should have come to Ori this morning,” Kíli interjects. “I'm sorry, brother, I wasn't well, I thought it was better to stay away -,” he looks to Ori. “Ori, I'm so sorry, I should have been here to protect you.”

It's Óin who says, very logically, “Yes, shame on the three of you for not predicting that a servant would attempt an assassination this very morning, for we all know you might have seen the future if you only took care.” He raises an eyebrow, and looks around, his mouth quirking up. “Ori is well, and so is the babe. He saved himself fine, as he has always managed to before.” He claps Ori on the shoulder, smiling down at him, his moustaches turning up at the expression. “Where the blame lies, we shall see, but I doubt it is on any of you, so perhaps we might wait before you all try to claim the glory.” 

Ori smiles up at him, some of the tension bleeding out of the situation. Not much, but some. The corner of Fíli's mouth rises, at least, making him look less murderous by a mile as he rises to his feet. He stays in front of Ori though, protecting him from some invisible threat in the room. “Dwalin, Tauriel, Kíli. I want at least one of you with Ori at all times.” He looks down at Ori, frowning regretfully. “I'm sorry. Put them at the door if you want, but you cannot ever be alone with someone we don't know again.” 

“No, it's fine,” Ori says, wiping at his face. “I want that. I never want to put him at risk again.” He touches his belly, afraid for his child all over again. If Fíli hadn't decided to make the tea last night, they would already be dead, and Ori too. If he hadn't backed away in the right direction, he wouldn't have been able to escape, and she'd of cut his throat in this room, left him to bleed out and die by their own bed. 

Fíli is hovering, his hands almost raised around Ori. “You're still so sure it's a son?” 

“Yes,” Ori answers, turning into Fíli's hand when he finally cups Ori's face. “She slipped poison in the cream last night. It would have killed us both.” He tries to smile, and cannot quite manage, but neither can Fíli, as he sinks back down, their foreheads pressed together. Ori would have drank the tea with his usual cream, and the baby would never have drawn breath. Fíli's face is twisted in private terror too, and he must be thinking the same thing. 

“Whoever sent her will die,” Fíli swears darkly, standing again and going to his desk, where Kíli is leaning. Kíli is already pouring him a drink, handing it off when Fíli is close enough. “Get it out of her if you have to cut off every part of her but her tongue. And then cut off her head.” 

“Fíli...” Kíli starts, but Fíli slams his glass down on the desk hard enough some of it sloshes out onto the desk. 

“Don't ruin the papers,” Ori reminds him mindlessly, hearing him huff in response. “I mean it, don't.”

“I'm the king. Stop telling me what to do,” he says, throwing back the rest of the glass. “And I mean it about that damned snake. I want her _dead_ , with her head on a damn spike.” He looks at Ori. “Any objections?”

Ori shakes his head, but Kíli frowns. “Fíli, maybe we should think about this?” he asks, even though he sounds unsure. “Dwalin, Tauriel, what do you think?” 

“I think she's a traitor to our king,” Dwalin says, laying Grasper across his lap. He's moved to the sofa, taking the drink Kíli offers him. “Treason is punishable by death on its own. Attempting to murder the king's intended and unborn child is...” He shakes his head. “You're soft-hearted, lad, and there's nothing wrong with that. But for this, we need to show force.” 

“She tried to murder your brother-child,” Tauriel says. “She made an attempt on your friend's life. We found the poison amongst her things. It comes from an herb that only grows in my home, and I've seen it used before. It would have killed the babe first, and Ori, he would have lingered for days in agony before it claimed him too.” 

Kíli inhales noisily, and exhales. “What sort of person murders children?” he asks. “You're a hero of Erebor. You're bearing the king's baby. Why would someone think to do this to you?” 

Ori wishes he could have a drink too, but if he even tries, he's likely to be sick. “She said she was ordered to. That there are nobles who think I'm manipulating Fíli, that even if the baby is his, it's...ruined. Because I'm the bearer.” 

Tauriel sneers, her mouth twisted in an ugly way. “We will find the ones responsible. And then they will say those words again. They'll be the last ones they ever speak aloud in this world.” 

It's reassuring. Before, Ori would have baulked at the violence. But this is his baby. 

And he wants everyone who dares threaten the child in him dead and cold before they can think another thought towards his baby. 

Tauriel is the only one still with him when Bofur pays him a visit, Kíli going with Fíli to stand in the Court. He's hardly come to see Ori since the news was announced, only to congratulate him and bring him a doll for the child once they're born. Today, he's empty-handed except for his hat, clutched tightly. “Are you all right?” he asks, as Tauriel shuts the door, leaving them alone. Bofur can be trusted, after all. “I heard from Óin.”

“She didn't hurt either of us,” Ori says, still looking at his papers. He's been distracting himself from the morning with the new treaties from their peoples in the East, attempting to find a way to tell Fíli what they want and make Fíli agree. For the past hour, he's been tempted to use the one advantage he has, especially when he considers this morning. Considering this morning involves thinking about this morning though, and Ori's not quite there yet.

“But your hands...”

Oh. Right. “I threw a pot of tea on her,” he says, flexing his fingers. Despite Óin's salve, his palms and fingers are stinging horribly. He hopes Socorro is hurting much worse in her cell, wherever that is. “Couldn't get to anything else.” 

Bofur sits beside him on the sofa, twisting his hat in his hands. “I'm sorry this happened to you, Ori. Really, I am. If I could have...been here...protected you somehow...” 

“Did you develop the ability to read minds?” Ori teases, his eyes on his papers. The Eastern Queen, Uzma Glassaxe, is not being generous in the treaties. He knows enough to know that amongst her lot, being hard-nosed is culturally a part of making deals, but he's not so sure she's not being insulting as well. He would ask Balin, but whenever he brings up the Easterners, Balin goes off on a rant in Khuzdul. “I'm trying to think about other things. Fíli is terrible at this, so I have to do it, or we'll be at war, it's ridiculous...”

“Ori, I love you.”

Ori does not drop his papers, or anything so silly and dramatic. If he drops them, the ink might smear. “Don't say that.” Because they're not in Ered Luin, and Ori is no longer a silly little boy with a shine for his elder brother's best friend. “Bofur, don't.”

“We could go back to Ered Luin, or anywhere you like,” Bofur presses. “ I'll claim the baby. We're heroes of Erebor, no one will -”

“I don't love you.” Because he doesn't. “This baby is mine and Fíli's. Fíli wants this baby -”

Bofur keeps on though, making it all so much worse. Ori doesn't want to hear this, any of this. Today has already been awful, he cannot stand anything more, and Bofur just keeps talking. “You don't love him though, and you always cared for me, you might love me if you only tried.” 

Ori looks at him, at Bofur. He'd thought he loved Bofur. 

But he doesn't. 

“I'm not a child any more,” he says, his hand on his belly, on his son. “Bofur, I don't love you, and you don't love me...” He cannot possibly, not after all this time.

“But I do.”

He shakes his head, wishing Bofur would just _stop_ , that he had never said anything at all. “You should go.” 

Instead, Bofur reaches out, his hand cupping Ori's cheek. Fíli does that too, had done that earlier. “I love you,” he says again, as firm as stone. 

Ori removes his hand, and repeats, “You should go.”

“I didn't say anything at first, because...I thought maybe you did love him, but I've seen you with him, you don't, you'll never love him, but you could love me, Ori, we always got on, and you were nearly killed today, you and the bairn...” He means well, Ori thinks. 

But Ori keeps looking into the fire, not at him, until finally, Bofur stands to leave, his hat in his hands. He thinks Bofur is going to say something else, from the way he looks down at Ori. Ori hopes he doesn't, that he'll just leave and let this lie.

And for once, something goes Ori's way today. Bofur leaves. 

For far too long, Ori stares into the fire, his papers still in his lap.

He had thought he loved Bofur. But the uncomfortable feeling he has now confirms that no, no. No. He does not love Bofur. He never did. For their people never love more than once. Bofur might think he loves Ori, but Ori does not love Bofur. He doesn't love Fíli. Dori isn't here to love any more, and for all intents and purposes, Nori is gone too. His mother is a world away. 

Gently, he touches his stomach, but only for a moment. 

There's still this paperwork, after all, and then after he finishes, he curls up in the bed to rest, and tries not to think about anything at all. 

Around supper, Ori wakes from a restless nap to Fíli wrapped around him in half-sleep. He's content to lie there in Fíli's arms, his eyes closed. The flickering fire causes bursts of colours behind his eyelids, soft waves of red and yellow and orange and blue and purple. Fíli stirs, kissing Ori's temple blindly as he intertwines their fingers over Ori's belly, and maybe it should be smothering, but Ori feels safe like this. Fíli noses at the back of Ori's neck, and it takes a moment for Ori to realize how tightly Fíli is holding him, that he's _shaking_. 

Ori squeezes their joined fingers. “I'm all right,” he reassures Fíli. “We're both all right.”

“You nearly weren't,” Fíli says, his voice catching. 

“He's fine,” Ori says, pressing their hands hard against Ori's belly. “I swear, he's moving as much as ever.” 

But he's misjudged Fíli's fears. “Damn it, Ori. _Damn it_.” He kisses Ori's temple again. “We can have another baby, but I cannot do this on my own. I cannot lose _you_.”Oh. _Oh_. “She was going to take you too, and I will personally break every one of her fingers for it.” 

“Kings cannot break fingers, you idiot,” Ori reminds him, his own face hot. “You're so stupid, I should have taken Bofur up on his offer.” He only means to tease, but thinking of Bofur has him tense. “Bofur came to visit.” 

“Everyone wants to see you, be sure you're all right,” Fíli says, still apparently trying to catch his breath. Ori keeps his back to Fíli, not sure he can handle seeing Fíli cry. He's bound to start himself. 

“He offered to take me back to Ered Luin, marry me.” He can feel how tense Fíli is behind him now, how he's waiting for Ori's answer. “He says he loves me.” 

Fíli is still holding him, the desperation back in his embrace. “I cannot say I love you, Ori. I cannot even say I can protect you, because I've obviously proven that wrong. I don't love you, but I care about you, and I'll do anything in my power for you.” He kisses the back of Ori's neck, and there's affection in the gesture, along with teasing. “And I need you. You and me, we love this mountain, and I can always trust you.” 

He does need Ori, that much is true. But Ori asks, “Do you want me?” as well. Because he needs to know he's not merely the convenient choice, or the one Fíli has to be with. 

“Yes.” 

“All right.” Now he turns so he's on his back, Fíli adjusting with him. His eyes are red-rimmed, so Ori reaches up, and brushes underneath of one with his thumb. “Stop that. You're being stupid. I'm fine and I'm not going anywhere. I have nightmares about you being in charge, you know.” 

“Funny.” Under his hand, the baby moves hard enough it startles Ori, and Fíli's expression changes suddenly, his brow drawing down as he looks at Ori's belly. “Is it...is that him?” 

“Yes,” Ori answers, covering Fíli's hand. He's the one who cannot breathe now, but Fíli doesn't seem to be doing much better. Ori's not even sure he's blinking. “That's him. That's your son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! [Jealous Fíli!](http://pariahsdream.tumblr.com/post/97277816661/this-was-sketched-out-a-while-back-but-i-havent) by the lovely Pariahsdream. I love the detail in Fíli's clothes, and Pariah's idea that Fíli would start styling his hair after Thorin's.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli and Ori's relationship comes to a head, while Erebor welcomes her princess home at last.

“Hello,” Fíli greets his half-carved child with a kiss to Ori's belly, and then kisses Ori on the cheek. “Hello. Kill me, please.” 

Ori hardly looks up from his work, but he does stroke Fíli's hair when Fíli kneels beside him and presses his head against Ori's belly. It's a bit too much like a dog to be dignified, but Fíli decides he's the king and he can kneel beside Ori and get his head stroked. He has a bit of a headache, if he's honest, the nobles of Court having driven him mad around six hours ago, and Ori usually knows how to ease them. 

He doesn't ask what's wrong, instead letting Fíli rest and, really, almost fall asleep there on the rug, his head lolling against Ori's knee. “Your mother will be here in the morning,” Ori reminds him, stirring him. “Bard's messenger came while you were in Court. They received her and the rest of the caravan around the tenth bell. They were too tired to come any further tonight, and you know your mother. She didn't want to drag everyone out of their beds, or push the ponies any further.” It sounds like his mother. She'd want to be sure the animals weren't overworked, and that the Dwarrows with her had time to rest and ready themselves for their long-awaited return home. “Does that make you feel better?” 

“Mm-hmm,” Fíli hums, forcing his eyes open. “She'll be able to help you, you know.” He touches Ori's belly. “Hello, love. Have you been good for your bearer today?”

“Yes,” Ori answers, shifting. “I feel better now, most days. Tauriel says they're doing well.” 

Fíli finally makes himself stand, even though his back and knees complain. Tomorrow his mother will be here, and just the anticipation is enough to ease his heart. She'll be here, and she'll be able to help Kíli, and Balin, and Ori. His mother might not be able to fix everything, but she'll make it all so much better. He's missed her more than he thought he would. “When is your mother coming?”

“End of the summer, when the travel will be easier on her.” He winces and tips his head back against the couch. “I doubt anything will make me feel better until the baby is born. Or this heat passes.” His discomfort worries Fíli, but before Fíli can press, Ori glares at him. “Do not.” 

“I only want to help,” Fíli says, leaning over to kiss him. It doesn't last long. Ori turns away and shoves at his shoulder. 

“Why do you insist on doing that?” 

Fíli shrugs. “I like kissing you. You don't like it?” He usually kissed Fíli back, indulging him, and giving him some much-needed affection in return. “You should have said.” He doesn't like the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the one that is looking at the prospect of his touch being unwelcome, of a cold marriage. 

“That's not it,” Ori replies. He reaches for Fíli's hand, and uses his help to stand. “Socorro, she...” 

Everything in Fíli runs cold at the thought of her, at what she had almost done. She sits in a cell in the dungeons even now, her trial not yet held, not until Dwalin was sure he had everything valuable out of her. Fíli wants her dead, but more, he wants everyone who contributed to her plot beside her on pikes. He wants them bodily thrown from the top of the Gates to crash into the rocks. Or drowned, drowning would be good. Drowning is slow, painful. “Why are you thinking about anything she said?”

“Because she was right,” Ori says, frightening Fíli. “You touch me all the time now, even in front of people. You kiss me in front of others, and in private. If I asked you for a star, you'd find a way to get me one, Fíli, you just, you can't _do_ these things.” 

“I wouldn't get you a star,” he argues, even now reaching for Ori. When Ori won't come, Fíli goes to him, wrapping his arms around Ori. Holding Ori is comfort, is _safe_. And Ori turns into him, fits in Fíli's orbit so easily. “Why can't I do these things?” One hand covers Ori's belly, covers their child. “Why can't I?”

“She called you weak,” Ori confides quietly, like a secret. “She said I was making you weak.” His fingers dig into Fíli's shirt, scrunching the fabric. “You're not weak. If I didn't have you, I would be lost. You're not, you can't be weak, ever, I need you to be strong, Erebor does, and -” 

And Fíli tips his head up and kisses him. It's Ori who deepens the kiss, who cups Fíli's face and presses his whole body into Fíli. Fíli grabs his hip, forces him to stay there, because by the Maker, he has thought about that night since Ori started sharing his bed. Waking up against Ori's warmth, Ori in his arms, has led to mornings where he gets out of their bed aching. 

Ori breaks away and turns around. “Damn it, that's how this started,” he hisses. “You're awful, you are, I can't think around you any more, do you realise? I keep thinking about you touching me, and how much I like it when you do, and I don't even know if I like you at all sometimes, but I keep thinking about it, and her, and everything she said, what everyone assumes, that I seduced you or something, as though I would, as though anyone would after they've talked to you for an hour, you're _infuriating_ and arrogant and you drive me mad, absolutely mad!”

“You're certainly raving like you're mad,” he agrees, still admiring Ori. He's showing enough now that his form has changed somewhat, a bow to his back, a swell to his stomach. It's more obvious when he's naked. 

He'd very much like to see Ori naked now. 

When he presses against Ori's back, he feels him shudder, hears the little sounds he makes when Fíli starts to kiss his neck. He's soft and warm against Fíli, just as he is in the mornings, only now he's pushing against Fíli, encouraging more. “You can't do this,” he complains, but he turns his head when Fíli's hand directs it, kisses Fíli. 

“I'm the king, I can do as I like,” he says, blindly undoing the buttons of Ori's surcoat. Ori doesn't stop him, no, he helps, guiding Fíli's hands. “Do you think about me? When we're in bed, when you're in my arms, do you think about me?” 

“You're so arrogant,” Ori replies sharply, but he doesn't tell Fíli to stop. 

But when Fíli is finally bared to the waist, Ori does stop them, his hand on Fíli's chest. He strokes down, following the soft lines of muscle, until he reaches the trail of hair that disappears into Fíli's trousers. He tugs on the laces until they come undone, and Fíli doesn't need to be told to sit and take his boots off so he can stand in front of Ori again and step out of his trousers. 

He's been naked in front of Ori plenty of times, but this is different. Ori is still half-dressed, admiring Fíli openly now. “I think about you,” Fíli confesses, not touching him. He wants Ori to come to him. “You're all I want. You and the baby, us and Erebor. I'm not weak and neither are you. You and I, we're going to make Erebor great again. We're going to bring our people home.” Ori comes closer, his eyes dark in the dim lighting, the dark smudges under them making them even darker. He comes close enough Fíli can grab him around the waist, yank him flush against Fíli. “Our child will be the spark that reignites this kingdom. I'm the king, and you're the scribe, the heroes of Erebor, because we took it back, and Mahal gave us a child, because _this_ is right. We're neither of us weak.” 

“No,” Ori agrees, cupping Fíli's face, bringing him down so they can kiss. “You're a lion.” 

Bearing or not, Ori never did weigh much, and it's so easy to lift him off his feet and take him to their bed, finish undressing him and worship what he reveals. He's seen Ori before, seen him often, but never this way, never as his, as Fíli's. He kisses him everywhere, leaves a trail of them over Ori's belly before he falls between Ori's legs, using his mouth there too, until Ori is pulling his hair and gasping, begging Fíli to come back up and kiss him. 

No sooner has he than Ori is saying, not whispering, because why should he? He'll be the Prince Consort in a fortnight, he's bearing the king's baby, and he's Ori, a hero of Erebor. “I want you inside of me again.” 

“Gladly,” Fíli says. His fingers first, coated with the oil Ori uses on Fíli's back, until Ori asks for him, for _him_ , and he can push inside of Ori again, be a part of him again. 

His breathing is laboured, loud, as he balances his weight on one arm, the other hand down, touching Ori. Ori keeps touching Fíli's face, bringing him close for more kisses, or turning away, tipping his head back and moaning. Fíli is aware of all of it, of the way his own back is bowed so as not to make Ori uncomfortable, the burn of exertion in his legs and shoulders, the crackle of the fire, the feel of Ori's hands on his skin, the way the sheets and blankets feel tangled up under them. 

Ori finishes first, with a sigh that Fíli feels down to his bones. He pulls out and strokes himself, kissing Ori's cheek and jaw and collarbone, but he's skirting the edge until Ori reaches down and takes over. His hand, his kiss, that's what does it, and he comes in Ori's hand. 

They're both fighting to get their breath back, but it's comfortable, at least for Fíli. Ori rises up, kisses his temple, and breathes, “Just a minute,” before he leaves. He comes back in while Fíli is dozing on the bed, joining him, still naked. 

“I like you naked,” Fíli says.

“It's too bloody hot to put clothes on,” Ori replies, burrowing into Fíli's side anyway. “Fíli?”

“Hmm?”

“After Socorro...after...you said we could have another baby.” Fíli opens his eyes and looks down at him, curious. “What did you mean?” He turns, lifting himself up so he can look down at Ori. “Would you want to have another baby with me?” 

Fíli hardly remembers what he'd said to Ori after Socorro. He'd been more terrified than he could remember being since the Battle, had only been willing to leave Ori's side when he knew Tauriel or Dwalin or Kíli would be with him at all times. Even then, after dealing with the initial problem of what to do with the traitor, he had to come back to their room and see for himself. Ori had been sleeping, had been peaceful and safe, but Fíli still hadn't felt at ease until he was wrapped around him, protecting him. She'd nearly taken Ori from him, and the thought had been unbearable. “I'm marrying you, aren't I?” he asks, brushing Ori's braids behind his ear. “Can try for as many children as you want.” 

“That's not what I meant,” Ori says. “If I had lost the baby, would you still be marrying me?” 

That's a harder question, but not because Fíli doesn't know the answer. He's just not sure Ori would like it. He always knows when Fíli is lying though, so there's little point in it. “Yes.” Ori keeps looking at him, so he continues. “Like I said, you're the only one who understands what I need. And whenever I look at you now...” Despite what they just did, he still pauses before he kisses Ori this time, silently asking for permission. “When I look at you, I feel like you're mine.” 

Ori kisses him again. “Are you mine, then?” 

“Yes,” Fíli promises. “Yes, I'm yours.”

♦

The Lonely Mountain stands taller than she remembers, and honestly, Dís is relieved they can use the excuse of resting the animals and the less sturdy of their peoples in Dale for the night. She needs a chance to catch her breath, prepare herself for what's waiting for her.

Her brother is dead. Out of the three, only she remains now, and Frerin's loss is long scarred over, along with her grandparents and parents. But she never thought Thorin would leave her as well. She never thought it would be just her left, had never once allowed herself to consider it. But now with the Lonely Mountain waiting, she knows the quiet fog of denial will lift, and the pain will be all the worse for it. 

And with Thorin gone, she must also acknowledge another painful fact. Her son, her golden boy, is no longer a boy. He wears the crown on his young head, and all of Erebor will look to him for leadership, for strength. No matter how many times she tells herself _Fíli is king_ though, it simply does not fit in her mind. How can her laughing young boy, who had left her with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek, all smiles despite her own tears, be a king? 

More, somehow always more, he will be a father before the year is done, and that is just as difficult to face. Oh, she had always supposed that he had a bit more interest in Glori's youngest than was proper, and she and Thorin and Dwalin had all expressed worry that it would be a problem sometime down the road. She had been the only one to have faith that neither of her sons were so foolish as to get someone in trouble, but as always, it seems Thorin knew her boys better than her. Or was willing to see what she could not.

A grandchild. She struggles to think the word again, but for all that she likes little Ori just fine, she cannot help but feel this is a mistake on both their parts. There's no reason Ori must be married. He's a hero of Erebor, and very wealthy now. And Fíli could acknowledge the child all the same. It would not be the first time such an arrangement came about. Fíli could wait until he was older, find a spouse then if he wanted. Ori could as well. But Ori, a 'Ri, sitting as Prince Consort? She does not like that idea. Children should not bear children, and children should not rule kingdoms. If they were still in Ered Luin, it would be different. Fíli could learn to be a good husband and father there, and Ori could have learned the same, and she would have been happy to watch them raise a family. They don't have that luxury now. 

Damn, a _grandchild_. She had wrote Fíli that she was pleased, and continued to correspond with Balin over the arrangements of everything. Balin seemed rather thrilled over the news, but perhaps he too was only pretending for the sake of the boys. She'll find out tomorrow, she knows, but there's no relief there. 

Truth be told, Dís is frightened of all she will know tomorrow. 

Her fingers brush over the token in her pocket, the match to the one she pressed into her Kíli's hand before he left with his brother. Fíli was headstrong, stubborn, and optimistic, following after Thorin without a doubt in his mind. Her younger one though, he had been so afraid. She had wanted to keep him home, had wanted to beg Thorin not to take him. Her Kíli was soft-hearted and still so young, and he did not belong on such a quest. But no matter what she'd of said, her youngest boy was determined to follow his uncle and brother. Kíli would not be left behind, and truthfully, she knows Fíli would not have gone without him either. 

Fíli had written her of Kíli's illness, not that he had to. Kíli's letters had been full of false cheer, often telling her the same things multiple times in the same letter. She'd known something was wrong, at the very least. When her son admitted there was an Elf from Thranduil's realm helping him, her fear had grown by leaps and bounds. How could Fíli allow one of theirs near Kíli? 

Well now she is here and she brings Dwarven healers. The Elf can go home to Thranduil, and Kíli will be properly cared for. 

“It is a lovely sight for you, I imagine.” 

She turns to look at Bard, so-called King of Dale. He had slain Smaug, she has been told, where his ancestor failed. Too little, too late, by her reckoning. She did not see why Fíli felt the need to reward him with Dale when he had only been doing what his wretched ancestor should have. Only a bargeman, she has been told, the son of a bargeman, and another before that. If there had been royal blood in him, it was long diluted by now. She does not much like the look of him, in any case. There's something bright in his eyes, something that says he will not be as easily kept in hand as his ancestor was. 

Fíli should not have allowed it before he had spoken to those who knew better. What were the Men of Dale compared to Dáin's forces? 

He is waiting for her to speak, completely undeterred by her silence. “I have not seen the Lonely Mountain since I was a little girl.” It is not an answer, but it is the best she can imagine. Dís is not a natural liar. “You have very charming children,” she offers, in place of anything else she could say. His children are very charming. She'd longed for a daughter herself, but her husband had died soon after Kíli was born, too soon to have another baby in her. “You must be very proud of your girls.” Sigrid and Tilda they are called, and they are strong daughters. “Sigrid will be a fine successor.” 

But Bard seems confused now. “Bain, my son, will succeed me.” 

“Isn't he your second child?” she asks, but before he can answer, she remembers. “Ah, yes. You are Men. You have strange ways. I always forget.” 

“If women might take the crown amongst your people, than why is Fíli king? Shouldn't you be queen?” It's a fair enough question, she supposes, as she packs her pipe. And if Fíli means to allow Bard to remain ruler of the Men for the time being, she has no choice but to make an effort towards him. Let no one say Dwarves cannot be diplomatic in the odd ways Men and Elves favour when need be. 

“When I married my husband, I forfeited my right to the Crown. He was not of Longbeard stock, and by marrying him, I joined myself to his clan. My brother promised to name my children as his heirs in place, so that I would go through with the marriage.” She had wrestled with long and hard before the marriage. She had already been pregnant with Fíli, and she hadn't liked the idea of being unmarried and alone, not in her financial situation of the time. 

But Kalle's people, a nomadic offshoot of the main clans, had strange customs. Those marrying in to their clan had to forsake all titles of their old lives, and accept the hierarchy of their clan. They didn't want challengers. Dís hadn't liked it, and Thorin had offered to find another way, but the only Dwarf she could stomach marrying amongst their people, Dwalin, had been away for months, and her belly was growing by the day. 

In the end, Thorin had made her an oath. He had no urge to make children, and would likely never take a spouse in his whole life. Instead, he would name her children as the next in line, so that Dís was not entirely cut out of the lineage. It had been a compromise she could accept, and she had married Kalle. 

He had not been a bad spouse, all in all. They'd been content together, and Kalle had adored Fíli, and for what little time he'd known him, Kíli. He had respected Dís deeply, and been perfectly willing to allow their sons to be Thorin's heirs, because it was what she wanted for them. 

“It is strange to me, to think of the way of Dwarves,” Bard confesses. “I cannot imagine any lass not marrying the father of her child as soon as possible.” 

Dís shrugs. “Your ways are just as strange to me.”

He smiles, and she believes she sees a little of his ancestor in his face. It has been many years though. Maybe it's only the light. “You will at least be pleased to see your sons, I know, and the grandchild on the way.” Again, this subject. Dís cannot make pick or axe of it still, cannot fathom the idea of a half-grown child bearing her son's heir, ruling Erebor. She has never thought badly of the Ri, and she knows Ori isn't some manipulative young creature turning her son's head, but she cannot be happy about this. Not yet. Bard continues on, oblivious to her inner thoughts. “Ori is doing well. Some of my own healers see to him when they can, and they tell me he'll bear the king a strong child. We worried, after the attempt on him and the bairn -”

Ice forms on her very bones as she stares at him in shock. “What are you talking about? What attempt?”

“Ah,” Bard stalls, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Ah, you must forgive me, I assumed you had been told of it. I should not have said anything, please, forgive me -”

“Tell me now,” she demands, furious. “Tell me what happened.”

Bard seems to think he should not, but he does. “There has been talk amongst some of your people from the North. One ingratiated herself with the attendants to Ori, and made an attempt on his life. Ori and the babe survived the encounter.” 

She doesn't know what to think of that either, not for a few long minutes. She knows the group he speaks of, and their more stiff way of thinking about some subjects. “It was because he was a Ri, wasn't it?” 

“I don't know, my lady, truthfully. I didn't think it was my place to press, not when His Majesty was so upset.” 

“Of course,” she says, feeling as far from the conversation as she is from the stars. “The murder of his first-born child, at his age...”

Bard nods. “Aye, and the loss of Ori. I do not know he would have recovered from the blow.” It brings her back down to solid stone, and she again looks up at him, curious. He doesn't interpret it the way it is meant, chuckling and saying, “I know Dwarves prefer some privacy from my kind, but even if I was blind, I could see the way your son adores him.” 

What do Men know of Dwarves, and what does this would-be king know of her son? “Fíli has known Ori all his life. The quest brought them closer, I'm sure.” It's a bad choice of words considering the circumstances, and Bard does not quite hide his smirk. Dís does not like being laughed at. Her sons inherited their humour from their father. Thorin had been the better-natured sibling, her and Frerin more prickly. She is not so prickly she will start a fight with someone her son is allied with though, so she changes the subject to something she can discuss more easily. “Tell me, what is the situation with the stores of food?” 

If he's taken aback by the change of subject, he doesn't show it. “I can show you the ledgers, if you like, my lady.” 

“Yes, I would,” she says, following him when he directs her back inside of his home. Ledgers, yes, Dís knows ledgers better than anything, and she can handle numbers better than she might handle Erebor and all that waits for her and their people. They will at least calm her enough to allow her to sleep the night through.

She falls into the bed she's been given at a time closer to sunrise than sunset, and she sleeps deeply. She's woken by Gilah, her secretary, and the pair of them go over what she's learned, Gilah patiently scribing until her son, Gimli, pokes his head in and tells them the caravan is ready to depart for Erebor. 

They board a ferry that will take them n groups, her and Gilah and Gimli in the first one. Gilah and Gimli are excited, Gimli alternatively pacing back and forth or bouncing on his toes at the stern. He was disappointed when Glóin and Gilah decided against allowing him on the quest, when even Ori got to go, and he's eager not only to see their long-lost home, but his father and his friends. He's been anxious since before Mirkwood, where they had met Thranduil's party. 

It had been odd, to see the Woodland prince again. All the years, and Legolas was no different. She had remembered him, vaguely, after having met him once when her mother had taken her along on a diplomatic mission. His face was unlined by the years, his hair as fair and golden as it had been when she was a little girl. He had been as distant as he was so long ago as well, at least at first. 

Dís eyes Gimli again now, unsure of what to think of the odd companionship Gimli had found with Legolas. They had not been inappropriate, but they had been friendlier by the end of the journey than she was comfortable with. He is Gilah's son though, not hers. If Gilah had not seen a reason to reprimand him, Dís had no place to do so. 

“I could swim faster than this,” Gimli curses, as they slowly approach the shore, where a party awaits them. “Is Adad there, do you think, Amad?” They are still too far from the shore to identify anyone, so Gilah shakes her head. 

“I do not know, love,” she says. “Your father has many duties now. We shall see him soon enough though.” 

But as they come yet closer, Dís' throat tightening with every inch, Glóin's bright red hair becomes visible, and no sooner have they touched shore than Gimli is bounding off the boat, splashing through the waves, uncaring, until he reaches his father. There are visible tears in Glóin's eyes, as he holds Gimli tight with one arm and extends the other to pull Gilah in as well. “Oh, my love,” he breathes. “My star, ah, to have the two of you in my arms again!” 

She does not see him, at first, not recognizing the dark-haired Dwarf in front of her. But he takes her by the elbows and smiles, and she cannot breathe properly for a moment that stretches on into forever as she realizes this tall Dwarf is her Kíli. “Hello, Mother,” he greets softly, and he is so old now, so much older than her sweet lad. There are circles under his eyes, and lines growing from the corners that were not there when he left her. His cheeks are sunken, his beard longer, and oh, he's so pale, and so _tired_. 

He does not wait to embrace her, but she cannot move, and she does not know she is crying until he pulls back and looks down at her, puzzled. “Mother, why are you crying?” 

“Oh, my poor boy,” she sobs, as time moves again and she clutches at him. “Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy,” and she hugs him, his slim body hard and unrecognisable to her. He's all muscle and bones, a young soldier she does not know. “Kíli, what has happened to you?” 

“It's as you said,” he replies, so clearly humouring her and her desperate need to keep him near. “The quest forced me to grow up at last.” 

“Kíli!” Her son is distracted by Gimli rushing over, the friends embracing and knocking their temples together. “Look at you, you're as skinny as an Elf now too, along with being as hairless!” Kíli cuffs him, but both laugh. 

Too soon, she thinks. He's grown up far too soon. She had said that at as a way to frighten him into staying home, one last attempt to keep at least one of her boys. 

A She-Elf approaches them, with long red hair and a quiver and bow over her shoulder. “Excuse me, Kíli, but everyone is ready to start up to the Gates, and, forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty bade me to bring you to him as soon as possible.” She stands in Kíli's sphere easily, too easily for Dís comfort. She even puts a hand on Kíli's shoulder, one he covers for a moment with his own. “His Majesty sent a pony for you, my lady, in case yours did not come on the ferry.” 

Indeed, they'd left the animals with the Men for the time being. But she does not like the way her son looks up at the Elf, the way he smiles so easily. She likes it less when the Elf mounts a horse, and Kíli swings up behind her. When he sees Dís looking from her pony, he laughs. “I'm not quite steady enough to ride just yet, Mother. Tauriel is kind enough to assist.” 

Glóin is speaking cheerily to Gimli, dragging his son along, but Gilah meets Dís' eyes and shakes her head. Now is not the time or place for this conversation, and as with Bard, the Woodland Elves are seemingly their allies. She will have to wait until later to speak to Kíli on this. 

It is no easier on the pony than it was on the ferry. The great Gates stand open, admitting them and the sunlight, and most in their crowd are too stunned to speak. She can see what they've accomplished in the time they've had. There are still cracked pillars and tiles, still smoke damage, but everything seems sturdy enough now, and the attendants waiting soon get their attention, organizing everyone into lines to take down the trade and household numbers. Most who are single travellers will likely be in the barracks with the soldiers until the dormitories are cleared out and ready, unless Fíli has already had it done. 

They bow to her as no one has done since she last stood in Erebor, in this Hall of Kings. The arches are high, but the floor is strange under her feet. She does not remember there being gold on the floor, streaks and flecks on the stone. It was so long ago though, she cannot trust her own memory. Her pony is taken in the Hall, led back out, as is the horse her son shared with the Elf. 

Lines are forming in front of attendants, the soldiers helping keep order amongst everyone. Many of the soldiers greet the Elf cheerfully, calling her _'Captain'_ in Khuzdul. She nods back, but she stays close to Kíli and their group. Dís expects Glóin or Kíli to dismiss her, but neither do. Glóin is more interested in Gilah and Gimli than leading the way through the Hall and deeper into Erebor, and Kíli seems content to remain by her side. 

“If you will follow, my lady,” Tauriel begins, as they leave the main group completely behind and ascend a wide staircase.

But Dís cuts her off with a curt, “I believe I still know the way.” 

Her son glances at her, brow furrowed. “Things are different within now, Mother. Many areas are inaccessible for the time being. Too much damage, and we're still finding gold in corners.” 

“Aye, my lady, place is a mess in some areas still,” Glóin adds. “Can be a bit of a maze. No one should be wandering anywhere not marked by these signs.” He points to a symbol she had not noticed, done in bright paint, the rune for _safe_. “We cannot block off everywhere dangerous, so all the wee ones will have to be with minders. Bard has volunteered some of the older children of his people, and they do a fair job.”

She has no doubt Bard has volunteered a great many services, as has Thranduil. They wish to secure their claws in her son now, while they still can, when he distrusts the Dwarves around him. No Men or Elves made attempt on Ori's life. Northerners, she's sure. She will have to discuss this once the Elf is gone and it is just her and their own trusted circle. Whatever she feels about Ori and the baby, if its Fíli child, it needs more protection. If they could get to Ori, they can get to Fíli and Kíli. 

Already, she thinks of their own people, ones she knows. Dwalin might vouch for some, and surely Dáin has some people that can be trusted with her sons. 

The palace is more damaged than she remembers, half of the main wall still missing from where the blasted wyrm tore open the treasury and dug out the wealth of Durin's folk to nest in. She can still see her home though, somewhere amongst the rubble, as they come closer.

“Not much is usable yet,” Kíli says conversationally, without much personal feeling. Why should he have any? The damage was old by the time he was born. “Fíli doesn't think it's a priority, not when everything else still needs to get done. Living areas are all right, for the most part, as is the throne room. Library is still fine, so Ori and Balin are over the Moon about it. Well, Ori was, now he's too busy keeping everyone happy.” He comes back further and takes her arm. “It's good to have you here, Mother. We've missed you so much.” 

“I've missed you, too,” she says, because she has. She's missed her family so much, missed her boys and her brother. They have dwindled to almost nothing now, the direct line of Durin. Just her and her boys. 

They pass many soldiers and courtiers, all hard at work, sidestepping damage without looking up. Under her feet, the stone sings with memories she had almost lost forever, and heat pricks her eyes again. She is home, home at last. It is broken, and dark, but it yet stands, just as their family does.

The Elf leads them up stairs and around corners, with steps far more familiar than any Elf should be in a Dwarven home. She stops in front of a great set of old wooden doors, and opens them to bow their group into a large, high-ceilinged chamber with a table bigger than a bed on the other side. 

She sees her first-born, standing over the table with Dwalin and a dark-skinned stranger at his left, maps and papers spread out haphazardly. She only manages to take the steps into the room because Kíli guides her, because she does not know this Dwarf as Fíli any more than the one beside her is Kíli. Her eldest son stands tall and straight, a circlet on his head, his long blond hair different now, the braids almost Thorin's, not his. Not her Fíli's. This Dwarf is a king. Her son was not a king. 

The Dwarf sitting on his right, Ori, - but how can someone so old be little Ori? - he notices them and nudges Fíli, pointing towards their group. Fíli smiles, but does not rush to her. He looks back down at Ori and helps him stand, and she sees his belly now, swollen with child. He leans on Fíli only a little, and they both come to her, Dwalin grinning behind them, but still speaking to the stranger. Allowing them a moment as a family, and then she has no doubt he will draw her in, embrace her as a brother. 

“Mother,” Fíli says, and hugs her. There is sadness in his face, but not as deep as Kíli's. This Dwarf is instead hardened behind his blue eyes, no longer a laughing young lad, no longer her lad. Her boy is a soldier and a king now, strong and able. “Welcome home.” 

“Thank you,” she says uselessly, as he draws away from her and brings Ori forward, his arm around the boy. Ori looks at her hopefully, but Dís finds it is no easier to understand when it is right in front of her. “Hello, Ori. I was so very sorry to hear about Dori.” It is what she can manage, and it's wrong, she knows right away by how he closes off. She is sorry about Dori. She'd enjoyed his company and his restaurant.

But it's not what an expectant grandmother should say, and they both know it. 

Fíli sees that too, and she doesn't know how she feels about the way he brings Ori in closer to his body, to his strength. They're attuned to one another's body, and her son is protective of the boy. Of what the boy carries in him. 

“And I'm so sorry about Thorin,” Ori replies politely, awkwardly, then looks around her and smiles. “Gimli!”

“Was waiting for you to notice me,” Gimli chuckles, and takes Ori from under Fíli's arm so they might embrace. He hugs Fíli next, and the pair of them knock their heads together. “Back together at last, eh? And look at you, you prat, you're king!” He knocks at Fíli's circlet, and Kíli laughs.

Dís steps back to where Gilah is, Glóin going to the table with a “Just a moment, my heart,” when the stranger and Dwalin summon him so he might look at some papers. The four boys stand together again, but they are none of them who they were, and her chest aches. Gimli is touching Ori's belly and Fíli is laughing. Kíli is hanging in the middle of Fíli and Gimli, arms slung around both their shoulders, as he has so many times in the past. “Gimli's a fine name,” Gimli is suggesting.

“Maybe the next one,” Fíli says, and shoves Kíli into Gimli so he might come behind Ori and wrap his arms around him. “You should feel how he kicks, he's as strong as Kíli by now, at least half as strong as you, Gimli.”

“Arse,” Kíli swears, settling his weight on Gimli. 

Dís feels like an outsider, looking in on something she has no part of. Even the Elf seems more at ease, as she stands over Dwalin's shoulder, following his finger as he quietly shows her something. The woman looks up briefly at Kíli, her smile fond and private and terrifying Dís down to her marrow. Her boys are being pulled in all directions, and none of them point to her, to their old selves, to her boys.

Gilah leans close, and whispers, “What do you think, my lady?”

“I do not know.” She hardly knows her sons in this moment, cannot trust herself to read them, or so she tells herself. Lying has never been a skill of hers though, not even to herself, and she knows what it means as Fíli looks down at Ori, one hand over Ori's belly. She knows, and she does not know what to think of it at all, what to think of any of it. “Come, let us see how things stand on paper.” 

“Yes, my lady.”

Numbers never change, at least. Dís can handle numbers right now, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this Dís is perhaps different than what you're expecting, but I like doing different things with characters. She's still reeling from the loss of Thorin and the way everything is changing, and she's not ready to trust any of the Men or Thranduil. She's not adjusted yet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli wanted more of his mother. Fíli wants so many things, he cannot even name them all. 
> 
> The summer winds blow a long-lost brother back, and it's Ori's turn to be disappointed.

“Mother, I like Bard,” Fíli says, for perhaps the tenth time in three hours. His mother doesn't seem to believe him this time any more than she did the last nine times, her expression still hard. “We get on. We both want the same things, and we can work our way towards them together.” 

“Whatever royal blood he had -” she starts again, but Fíli whirls on her. 

“Oh yes, the time I spent learning a fiddle and playing in taverns qualifies me so much more to be a king,” he reminds her, turning back to the table where the maps are laid out. “Mother, if you don't want to contribute to this, I will summon Balin instead.” 

Dís sneers at him in a way that used to mean he was in for a smack, but things are different now. He almost wishes she would smack him. It would at least make their relationship feel more normal. For the few days she's been here, they haven't spoken of anything more than numbers and stores and soldiers. The distance between them is unfamiliar, but he doesn't know how to breach it, doesn't even know what she wants of him. 

She taps the map that has the possible areas for farming marked. “You do not need to be so generous with the Men.”

“I do if we want to eat, Mother, and fill our stores.” He leans over, closer to her. “ _Both_ of our stores. Thorin promised the Men they would again be the trade hub they were, and that they would finally come out of their poverty, same as us. I intend to keep his promise.” 

“After what they did, you are under no obligation -!” 

“What would you have me do, Mother?” Fíli is already at his wit's end, and this is not helping. He expected his mother to be supportive, not questioning his every decision. “Enslave them to work the fields? Hold their children hostage until they do as we say? Murder the lot of them?” When she doesn't immediately disagree, his temper snaps. “Mother, I understand losing Thorin was hard on you, believe me, I do, but you are being unreasonable!” She scowls, but before she can say anything, he adds, “And you need to be nicer to Ori!” 

That's the heart of it, unfortunately. He wanted her to take care of Ori, to be as happy as she had claimed to be in her letters. She's been so cold towards him though, not once asking Fíli about the baby, or how he felt about being a father. 

“What would you like me to say about Ori, Fíli?” she demands. “Would you have me say I'm pleased you did the exact thing I always told everyone you would never do? Everyone made their jokes, but I told them you would never be so stupid and irresponsible! But now it seems you were, and -”

“Don't tell me my child is a mistake, Mother, believe me, you do not want to have that conversation with me,” he warns her, furious. “Someone already tried to take Ori from me, and you will not make your attempt either.” 

She draws back from him, her face calculating. “You're more concerned about Ori than the baby?” 

Fíli looks back down at the papers. “We can have more children.” It's not as though he wouldn't mourn with everything in him, not as though he doesn't feel attached already, but Ori is the one here and breathing, and the baby is not. Fíli....doesn't know what that means, not really, only that he's not quite ready to examine it, not just yet.

“You're too young to be having children,” she protests. “Ori isn't even of age. The only reason your marriage will be legal is because he's bearing your child, or so he says.” 

That puts his back up in a way he doesn't like, not when it's his mother doing it. “What do you mean by that?” 

Dís looks at him for longer than he can stand. “He's a 'Ri,” she says firmly. “And he's turned out fairly pretty. Everyone notices, even now.” She talks like Fíli is an idiot, but he's not blind. Ori is admired, openly, but ever since the news was announced, it's been more respectful and distant, as it should be. Admiration for the king's chosen, for the heir soon to be born. “Are you so sure there's no chance the baby was sired by another?”

He stares at her, not sure she isn't testing him. “You've known Ori since he was a child,” he syas, trying not to sound as though he's accusing her.

“I've known you and your brother since you were inside of me,” she replies calmly. “And yet I hardly know the pair of you right now. You especially. I look at you...and I see Thorin more than I see my son.” 

“What's so wrong with that?” All this time, that's who he's been struggling to be, trying to be strong like Thorin, to be the king Thorin would have been for Erebor. He's fought tooth and nail for every inch he's gained with Thranduil and the Woodland Elves, Dáin and the Iron Hills, Bard and the Men, and more, letters with promises of emissaries that come from the Eastern Lands, the Deadwater, and the far icy North. “I've done everything I was supposed to do, Mother. I gave our people back our home, and so did Ori. We've all sacrificed for this, all of us. Kíli might never be the same again, and maybe you cannot accept that yet, but I can. I'm different, and so is he, and you need to stop looking at him as though you pity him. You need to stop looking at me as though I might go back to being your child again. I cannot.” He gestures to the maps angrily, furious with her and her unwillingness to bend. “We cannot hold on to old hurts, Mother. Not if we want to thrive. And you cannot suddenly remember the old ways and decide that's how you're going to be again.” 

Because hadn't she liked Glori? Hadn't they been something like friends? Balin openly missed Glori, as did Bifur, Bofur and Bombur. Why was this suddenly different? 

Dís braces herself on the table, her knuckles whitening with the effort. “Neither of you are even a century yet. You're too young to be having children, far too young, and too young to be making this decision. You'll be king, which means until one of you dies, you'll be tied to one another. There is no divorce in the royal family.” She glares at him through her braids, the set of her brow and her jaw so much like Thorin it hurts for a moment. “It would have been different in Ered Luin. I would have smacked you upside your fool head, and then the pair of you would have been married, and all would be well enough. But how do you plan to be a king of a kingdom that must be rebuilt, and a husband, and a father?”

She speaks like he hasn't considered any of it himself, as though he really is running into this blind. “I'll make it work,” he says. “I'm marrying him, Mother, and he'll bear my heir before the year is done. If that's something you cannot accept, then stay out of my way.” The words feel wrong the moment they're out of his mouth, but they're very final. 

He feels like a king

“Then I suppose you should summon Balin,” she says, and sweeps out of the room. 

Fíli watches her go, and though he wants to, he doesn't call her back. If they keep talking, they're bound to say things they don't mean. More things. He hopes he didn't mean that. “What is my life?” he asks aloud, groaning. 

“Lad, is there a reason your mother looks ready to behead an army of Orcs?” Dwalin is standing in the doorway, looking over his shoulder, clearly curious. He enters, shutting the big doors again. “She's only been here a few days, and the pair of you are already fighting? That's not exactly the reunion I expected.” 

“She questions my every decision,” Fíli tells him, pinching the bridge of his nose. He takes the circlet off his head, setting it on the table. The damn thing keeps giving him a headache. “And I do mean _every_ decision. Including Ori.” 

Dwalin inhales through his teeth and sits heavily in one of the chairs. “Sit, lad.” He's so tired, he does it without thinking. He wants to go back to his room, back to his bed. “Before you get too big for your boots, remember she's your mother, and she's a good one, so she deserves some respect. Now if things were different, if I didn't know she had your best interest in her heart, I'd tell you to do what you had to.” Fíli settles back in the chair, throwing an arm over the back of it and slouching more than a king should.

“Do you think Ori is lying?” he asks, because he wants to know what Dwalin thinks. Fíli believes Ori, but he needs to know the people he trusts most trust the both of them. 

“No, I don't,” Dwalin says, shaking his head. “And for what it's worth, I think you're making the right choice. You and Ori are a good match, as long as you can both hold your damn tempers.” Fíli looks at him hopefully. “Your mother is worried. You've been gone from her for over a year now, and she's having a hard time finding the boys that left her in the pair of you.” 

“She wanted me to grow up,” Fíli protests. All the time, she had lectured him about how immature he was, how it was time to be an adult, to let go of his childhood habits. “I've grown up. She needs to make up her mind.” 

“She didn't want you to do it without her, is all, and it's been hard for her to see Kíli as he is, especially with the Captain.” 

“What's wrong with Tauriel?” She's been a blessing for Kíli, bringing him out of his waking dreams as no one else had managed. He's still not as he was, but Fíli has stopped expecting that. He cannot be who he was, and he should not expect that of Kíli. Or at least, that was what Ori said. “Because she's an Elf?”

Dwalin sighs. “Your mother remembers things the same way the rest of us do. I've learned better now, and I might not like Thranduil, but I like Tauriel, and she's been good for our two peoples. She's a good soldier.” He reaches down, and groans. “Keep forgetting to replace my pipe.”

“Here,” Fíli hands him his own, and his pouch of pipeweed. “Haven't had much chance for it lately. Óin says it's bad for the baby.” Ori wasn't too fond of it either, truth be told, and Fíli's willing to indulge him on something so small. “So you think I should apologise to her?” 

“I think you should concentrate on the food supplies,” Dwalin says, looking over the map. “I seem to remember this area here, see? I thought they grew rice there. Something about the flooding. We'd need rice to start it again though. Dáin has a trade route, we can ask him.”

“The Eastern Dwarves have been seeking to secure ties...” Fíli says, thinking. Rice is a good crop to keep bellies full, and it stores well. “I'll have Balin write a request...or maybe Ori.” Balin and Dáin appear to have some bad blood between them that Fíli doesn't have the patience for. “Bard was planning to visit in the morning. I'll discuss it with him.”

Dwalin nods, apparently agreeing. He smokes quietly for a moment, then asks, “Wedding clothes finished yet?” 

“Yes,” Fíli answers, uncaring. The clothes have been made new, despite his own protests. Everyone had insisted he should spend the money in Dale, and amongst their own people, show generosity with Erebor's wealth. He'd been poked and prodded by needles and pins for weeks now, whenever there was time. “They have me in blue and white and gold...a little bit of purple for Ori's family. Haven't seen Ori's.” 

In truth, they're the finest clothes Fíli has ever worn in his life. The embroidery in the white surcoat is real gold thread. He's not so sure how he feels about the practicality of wearing something white, but when he had questioned it, the tailor and her fleet of assistants had stared at him for a good minute, then fallen back into their somewhat incomprehensible dialect of Khuzdul and kept on draping fabric over his shoulder and against him. Later, one of Dáin's people had carefully told him white was traditionally worn for mourning and celebration in Erebor. 

He'd felt better when he asked Ori, and Ori had been as confused as him. 

That reminds Fíli, actually. “Are you standing with me, or Ori?” 

“Why wouldn't I stand with you?” Dwalin asks, warning Fíli.

“Because the whole....you...Nori...” Fíli waves his hand to encompass his awkwardness over the whole situation. 

Dwalin bites the end of Fíli's pipe, annoying him. “Do you see Nori anywhere?” It's a dangerous question, one Fíli doesn't answer. He hates what he knows, and hates more that he's keeping it from Ori. He'll be terribly cross with Fíli when he finds out. “I'll stand with you, as will Kíli. Gimli and Balin volunteered to stand with Ori. The parties are even and small then. No one is expecting anything particularly grand, not as things are.”

“No, suppose not.” They could afford it, but Fíli doesn't want food wasted. As it stands, they're fine, but he'd rather not risk it putting a dent in their stores. They're just now all starting to be more comfortable. “I'm tired. I'm going to take my midday and then a quick kip in my rooms. Make excuses for me.”

When he comes into the sitting room though, he's greeted by Ori, standing on a stool of some kind, wearing what must be the beginnings of his own wedding clothes, and surrounded by seamstresses. They've done his in purple where Fíli's is blue, and in a different style entirely. Ori's shorter than Fíli, after all, and the design of Fíli's wouldn't be comfortable with Ori's current state. “Your Majesty,” they murmur in turns, bobbing up and down like buoys on the water. 

The benefit of being king is that people move when he comes close. Standing on the stool, Ori is actually taller for once, so it's him that bends to kiss Fíli, and for a moment, Fíli can rest his head against Ori's collarbone, breathing in. He's had a bath this morning, not unusual. He's enjoyed cold baths for a time now, and the scent of the soap lingers on him. 

He's made aware of their audience again when one of the little group doesn't quite manage to disguise their huff of impatience. They only have so many hours in the day to get this done, and he's in the way. “I'm going to call for midday,” he says, tipping his head up to Ori. “Any preferences?” 

“No fish,” Ori specifies. 

“Done.” He leaves them to their work, and finds a servant in the hall, one of Ori's charity cases. He's been hiring the young child soldiers as of late. “Are you doing any chores right now?” The Dwarf shakes their head. “Then go to the kitchens, and request midday to be brought up for myself, my intended, and...six or seven tailors. No fish, nothing too salted. White wine, and tea.” The Dwarf bites their lip. “Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they say, and curtsy before hurrying off. 

He hopes it's not that dumpling-in-broth concoction again, even if Ori had liked it. 

He rubs at his aching temple and realizes he left the circlet sitting on the table. Damn it.

♦

The summer wind blows hot on Nori, and across the grass, moving it like waves on the water. It stirs a flock of birds, crows, and they take flight in a cacophony of offended cawing. Nori takes the sight as a good omen. A single crow is good luck; a flock announcing his arrival? Has to be good. Has to mean Ori will forgive him for running, for his fear and the cowardice.

He reaches Erebor's gates an hour after sunset. The guards and other workers don't notice him slipping past them, Nori blending in with everyone else milling about. Really, he doesn't even need to sneak in. He knows it. But old habits and all. 

For a few hours, he scopes out the place, stalling. Erebor is less of a wreck than when he left, but not quite the shining city beneath the Mountain Dori and their mother had always described. Maybe one day. Perhaps Fíli is indeed the king Thorin believed he could be. Or just lucky. Who knows? Nori is a nomad again, and whatever Fíli does is none of his concern, as long as Nori has his money available when he needs it. 

Nori balances himself on a fallen pillar, walking it like a cat on a fence post. Or himself, on a fence post. He always won when he and his friends competed. 

The stone glows with light, as it never could in Ered Luin. Ered Luin was dark stone through and through. Erebor is light stone, so much, that Nori is almost unsure of how to listen to it. It sings deeper than the dark and dead stone of Ered Luin did, more a solo than the chorus that the cities that their people built in the sands sang, the ones he had so recently walked in. To be amongst old friends, ones who had never known Dori, did not feel the need to ask after him, had been a reprieve Nori needed. 

People who did not look at him as Ori did, asking for things Nori didn't know how to give, asking for him to be Dori when Nori hardly knew how to function without his elder brother guiding him. How could someone like Nori head the family in Glori and Dori's stead? How could he care for little Ori? No, no, he'd just bollocks it up, ruin Ori as he himself was ruined.

But those thoughts had been selfish. Ori had needed him and Nori's cowardice had been the breaking of them as brothers, if he indulges his own darkness. Will his little brother forgive him, is the question that plagues his dreams now? Even Ori has his limits. He might cast Nori aside. He might declare Nori no brother of his.

And yet Ori, despite everything, had still been sweet, little Ori at the end. His little Ori, curled up in the tent, knees to his chest as he sobbed over Dori. Dori, their strong, beautiful brother, laid out before Ori. His wounds had long since stopped bleeding, had stopped under Nori's balled-up outer shirt. His brother, the brother who had raised him, had been so confused. Dori had kept telling Nori it hurt, that he hurt so very much, that it hurt. _It hurts, Nori, it hurts_

Nori remembers now how he had pleaded, how he had cried, _“No, no, no, not you, no, no -”_ and tried to stopper the blood-flow, how he had prayed and screamed for help and bargained, because the blood wouldn't stop. It wouldn't. 

Erebor is crumbling in places he steps, Smaug's damage and the disrepair still showing. He's alone, for the most part, once he ventures in far enough, up into the neighbourhood their mother, Kori, and Dori lived in. Dori and Kori's father had lived there too for a time, supposedly. Nori never knew him. Both him and Kori died in the attack. 

The door isn't even latched. It opens with a nudge of Nori's boot, the old door unresisting. Inside, it's dark and cold, the fire in the hearth like ice. No one has made a meal, or even sat in the room for quite awhile. When he ventures further in, the other cleared areas are the same. Someone, Ori, he guesses, made an effort to make some of the house liveable, but all the fires are cold, the lamps unfilled. The bed linens, what little there are, are musty. The kitchen pantry is empty, no stores in the larder or the cold room. There's nothing drying in the ceiling rafters either. 

No one lives here, and Nori is afraid. Where is Ori? Where is his little brother, his only brother now?

Someone makes a lot of noise coming in, and honestly, it's not too surprising to see Bofur. 

“Guards told me someone was creeping about the place. Hoped it was you.” He smiles, and reaches out to embrace Nori, but Nori's not in the mood. 

“Where's Ori?” 

“Ah.” Bofur rocks back and forth on the heels of his boots. “Why don't you come on back to mine, yeah? Have us a drink and catch up...” Nori doesn't give him much warning before he shoves Bofur against the wall, a knife in hand and pointed up under Bofur's ribs. “Now, now! No need for that! The lad is alive and...well...well enough...damn it, Nori, put that thing away now, before you hurt someone!” The kick to Nori's shin with Bofur's well-reinforced boot convinces him more than anything. 

“Fucking melt it down, you bastard!” he shouts. “That's going to bruise!”

“Oh, toughen up, you prissy Elf,” Bofur snaps back. “Putting knives in folks' ribs, like you haven't got the manners I know your mam and Dori smacked into your fool head...” 

Nori sits at the table, rubbing his shin petulantly. “Promised me you'd keep an eye on him, and I come back to an empty house and you stuttering your way through some horse-shit, what do you want me to do, greet you with a kiss?” His shin really hurts. Bofur is the worst friend he ever made, he swears it. “Now, where is Ori? I want to know why he's not here, and I want to know now.” 

Bofur huffs, but sits beside him. He pulls a flask out and offers it to Nori. “I advise you to take a swallow or three of that first. Maker knows I needed it.” 

“What is it?” Nori takes a sniff, but it smells all right, so he does as Bofur says and has a nip. Bofur doesn't say anything much for the time it takes Nori to feel the warmth of it. “Tell me.” 

“He's with Fíli. In the palace. They're getting married in...three days now? No. Forgot the day.” His eyes are bloodshot, now that Nori looks at him up close. He's been drinking. That's not like Bofur. He's not like Nori, Bofur knows how to handle things. “Day after tomorrow. Going to be a fine feast. Dáin is providing some of it, but Thranduil is doing his part. Even allowed us to hunt in his woods. Anything to keep Fíli as his ally and not the other two.” He sniffs. “Mad as a glass pick he is, Thranduil, but I like having that glass pick aimed the other way, not going to lie. Glass cuts pretty deep, you ken?” 

Nori stares at his old friend, unsure of what to make of the nonsense he just spouted. “How can Ori marry Fíli? He hates Fíli.” 

“Aye,” Bofur agrees roughly, taking the flask back. “Aye, he did, didn't he?” He grins at Nori. “Remember how you used to joke it'd be me and Ori?” Nori did used to tell that joke, laughing at the way his little brother so openly admired Bofur. And really, he'd believed it. He really had thought Ori would grow up and Bofur would take notice of him. “Was a funny joke, I guess.” Bofur takes a deep swig of the flask, and leaves that subject where it lays. 

He loves Bofur enough to leave it as well. “How can Ori get married though? He's not at his maturity yet.” And Nori certainly didn't consent to it, and there's no way their mother did. “Only way a marriage could be legal is if...” He trails off, half-laughing, but when Bofur continues to grimly stare at the floor, Nori stops laughing. “He's not at his maturity.” 

“Comes early, for some. Guess Ori was one of them.” He offers Nori the flask again, a good thing, because Nori needs it. “Bairn will be born around Durin's Day.”

“That's not possible,” Nori protests, shaking his head. “That means the babe was made... _no_. Ori _hates_ him.” He never did think much of the princes, and now he has a _reason_ , he'll slit that boy's throat. “I'll kill him.”

Bofur shakes his head. “You should see before you think the worst.” 

“See what?” Nori spits. 

“See them.” He smirks. “Ori keeps saying it's a boy. You'll have a brother-son, I suppose. Bombur says you have to trust the bearer's feeling on it. They're usually right. He should know, all those children of his.” Bofur is tilting a bit, so Nori scoots a little closer, encouraging his friend to lean on him. Bofur's not the steadiest drunk. “Missed you, Nori. You would have stopped this from happening. Never would have gotten in trouble. Ori's too young to be in trouble.” He's completely gone when he says, “I would have married him.”

Nori pats him on the head, choosing to deal with this first. “Let's get you home, Bofur.” 

It says too much that Bombur and Bifur aren't even surprised when Nori shows up at the kitchen door, half-carrying Bofur to the door. He was sick twice on the way over, Nori holding his hat on his head for him. Bombur takes him, helping him to the sink so he can clean him up. 

_Know?_ Nori signs, in front of his heart. 

Bifur nods, and signs, _shattered_ over his own heart, grunting towards Bofur. _You?_

He signs, _Ori? Fíli?_ and crosses his arms, his eyebrows raised. 

Bifur joins their name-signs over his chest, and nods, then imitates a swell to his belly. _Happy Ori. Happy Fíli._ He spells Fíli's name out, then shows Nori what is apparently Fíli's new name-sign. No longer Fíli's name and music, now it's Fíli's name and _crown_. The corner of Nori's mouth twitches, and Bifur catches it. _Ori happy. Happy,_ he emphasizes hard with his hands, grunting something in the Dead Tongue. _Make toys. Smiles. Happy. After -----, scared. Happy again._

Nori stops him with a waving hand, then tries to imitate the unknown sign, his expression questioning. _Spell?_ he asks. 

When Bifur slowly spells out _assassination attempt_ , Nori wishes he was still ignorant. 

_No,_ he signs, but Bifur nods. 

_Northerners,_ Bifur explains, serious, until the sounds of Bofur being sick in the sink has him rolling his eyes. _Servant, knife. Ori threw tea kettle. Burned face. Not pretty now. Dwalin, make uglier. She talk. Spoke scary talk. Ri, Northerners._ He makes a negative motion. _Fíli, kill all when find._

“It's his fault anyone is looking at Ori!” Nori shouts, but Bifur waves him down, attempting to calm him. “No! He hated Fíli! How exactly did he get a baby in him when he hated the sire? Tell me how that happens -”

Bifur makes a silencing gesture, and signs, _Trust,_ making their name signs and then crossing them together again. _Love..._ he makes a face, then signs, _Mining_ , over his heart. Nori turns his face away, but Bifur grabs his chin and forces him to turn back so he can see Bifur sign with his other hand, _No you anger. You leave. Ori find strength. Fíli find strength. Together. Baby, good. Happy. You, happy?_

 _Ori, child,_ he signs, but Bifur shakes his head. 

_Child,_ he tosses over his shoulder, showing the past. _Quest, battle,_ and slides the last sign down his arm, shaking his head. _Adult. Make baby, marry. Done._ With the last one, he makes a final gesture. _Happy, you. For Ori._

Nori shakes his head. _Hates._

 _Fíli always in shop. Them, always shouting. Why Ori not leave? Why Fíli not come? Always, pair. Happen Ered Luin. Different. Baby happen Ered Luin, different. Baby happen here. Two, paired. Paired._ Nori tries to turn away again, but Bifur grunts and turns his face back. _Baby happen, always. All knew. Dori knew._

“What are you talking about?” Nori demands hotly, angry, because Bifur doesn't get to talk about Dori. Not after everything in Ered Luin. 

_Jokes. Dori, Thorin, Dwalin, me. Jokes. Think Fíli trouble to Ori. Thought baby. Glori agree. Glori unhappy. Dori, funny. Dori, happy. Happy, baby. Unhappy, Ori young. Different, Erebor. Dori, happy. Know Dori. You, not know Dori. Dori knew Ori. Trust Ori. You, learn._ He's so sure of himself, settling back and nodding, that it riles Nori's temper again, his anger towards Fíli finding an easy outlet. 

“You and Dori had a lot of pillow talk then, did you? Didn't think you made that much coin,” he says nastily, and Bifur recoils. Nori can see Bombur stiffen uncomfortably, but he doesn't turn to them. It's none of his concern, and he knows it. 

Bifur signs, _You left. Dori die. You leave Ori. Ori strong, Stronger than you._

Nori sneers, and stands. He cannot have this conversation. He cannot talk about Dori, not with Bifur. Not with anyone. He cannot talk about Dori. He will not. “I should have known I couldn't trust Broadbeams,” he dismisses, earning a cold look from Bombur and Bifur both. 

“Don't mean that,” Bofur mumbles, supporting himself on the counter. “We're the only ones you trust.” 

He's not wrong, but Nori still leaves, with a destination firm in mind.

♦

“She hasn't warmed to me at all,” Ori says to his pillow, not looking at Fíli undressing. “I thought she liked me in Ered Luin.” Because the Lady Dís had always been so nice to his family and him. She'd asked him about his lessons with Balin, and his mother. She hadn't minded Kíli being friends with him. He'd thought...

He doesn't know what he thought. His mother will be here at the end of the summer anyway.

Fíli sits beside Ori on the bed, and brushes a kiss over his temple. “Mother will come around.” 

“You said that the first day,” Ori reminds him, burrowing further into the pillow. He doesn't blame Fíli for the chill in Ori's relationship with Dís, but he can't deny how lonely it's made him feel. “It's nice to have Gimli, at least. He's carving a cradle as his gift for him, and Kíli is helping.” That had at least made Ori feel better. He'd been so sure Gimli could help Kíli. 

“Really?” Fíli asks eagerly enough that Ori turns his head to see him. He's smiling hopefully, and it brings back the joy Ori had felt when the two told him. Kíli had been so pleased with himself, and it had lightened Ori's worries about him. 

“Really,” he says. “He even had designs worked up.” 

Fíli chuckles, disbelieving. “He did?” 

Ori nods. “He seemed more like himself, for the first time since I can remember.” He inhales, and gets a good whiff of Fíli's soap when he does. Fíli likes the sharp scent of the evergreen soap the Elves have sent, whereas Ori favours the deeper scent of the soap the Men had gifted them with. Ori doesn't much like Elf soap on his own skin, but it smells good on Fíli. 

At some point in the night, Fíli wakes to go to the bathroom. The process of getting out of the stupidly big bed involves untangling himself from Ori and the covers and furs, which requires a more awake mind than he has to do it without waking Ori at least a little, so now Ori makes a displeased sound, stirred from what might have actually been a rather boring dream for a change. Fíli kisses him on the temple, teasing even when half-asleep, and Ori bats at him, nestling further into the nest of blankets, while Fíli frees himself.

Once Fíli returns, he settles on his back this time, and Ori moves towards him, curling into Fíli's side, still half-asleep and mostly dreaming. Fíli wraps an arm around him, keeping him there, even if they're going to move some more in their sleep. Ori likes being close to him in the bed, both their nightmares kept away. Besides, Fíli makes for good support for his belly. 

Except Fíli is tense, the muscles of his chest tight under Ori's hand. Ori tenses too, his dreams chased away, not moving as he feels Fíli move his free arm under the pillow, where he keeps a knife still, as Ori peeks.

There's a figure at the end of their bed, and Fíli reacts, sitting up with the knife in hand and sheltering Ori behind him. “ - What?” Ori asks, still not quite awake, at the same time Fíli demands, “Come any closer and you're dead, I swear -”

But then Ori is pushing the hand with the knife down and asking, “Nori?” and turns up the lamp beside their bed so that he can confirm it is indeed Nori standing in their bedroom. “What are you doing here? When did you return?” 

“Are you trying to get killed?” Fíli asks, sounding more annoyed than anything else. He throws himself back on the bed, covering his eyes with his forearm. “Thought you were a bloody assassin.” 

Nori doesn't say anything. He's looking at Ori.

Sitting up, with the covers down and in just his nightshirt, the swell of his belly is unmistakeable. There's no mistaking the way Nori is looking at him either. 

But Nori left Ori behind, and Ori's not inclined to be generous towards him or whatever feelings he's having about this. Ori places a hand on his belly protectively in response, glaring at his brother. 

Nori smirks, and says, “Damn, but you're doing Grandmother proud.” 

He always did know just where to hit people.

“Don't tempt me to forget who you are,” Fíli replies, not sitting up, but still defending Ori. With his eyes still closed, he reaches out for Ori, finding the small of Ori's back and moving his hand in circles, reassuring him. “That said, is it possible to have this conversation in the morning?”

Ori puts a hand on his chest, and when Fíli opens his eyes, Ori says, “Go back to sleep. I need to talk to Nori.” 

“You sure?” Fíli asks. “I could wake up.” It surprises Ori still that Fíli can be sweet, but even half-asleep, he can be, so Ori leans over and kisses him quickly. 

“It's fine,” he tells him, Fíli blinking at him sleepily. “It's just Nori. He's not exactly going to assassinate me, or steal me away.” 

“Point taken,” Fíli replies, closing his eyes. 

Ori climbs out of the bed, a struggle even without having to navigate his stomach around the process, and turns down the lamp. He's a Dwarf, and his eyes adjust quickly as he grabs Nori by the arm and tugs him out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, closing the sliding doors behind him. 

Nori watches him. “Awfully considerate of you.”

“He's the king,” Ori reminds him. “He needs to sleep or we'll end up at war with the damn birds knowing his temper.” He smooths down his loose hair, inhaling deeply. “I end up pacing in here half the night any way, then sleeping 'til the afternoon. No one ever said anything about that, by the way.” He's trying to be funny. Maybe funny will help. 

Nori's not smiling. He's investigating the room, the odd trinkets he and Fíli have somehow amassed since they came to Erebor, mostly gifts from traders and Dáin's people. There's a pretty set of stars on moving metal rods that spin in correlation of their seasons, and now Nori spins it, harder than Ori likes. 

“Don't,” he says, stilling Nori's hand. “That was a present, from Little Thorin. He made it himself, as a bearing gift.” He'd been so proud to give it to Ori too, smiling big enough to show his two gold teeth. 

“Forgive me, I was unaware of the happy tidings,” Nori replies dryly, walking away as Ori turns the lamps up. His brother looks tired, his hair down from the old travelling style and in his usual home braids, showing off the length and colour of his hair. Nori's always been proud of his hair, just as Dori was. Ori had never been so prideful of his, not before. Now, his is growing out of the old style, hanging looser, in prettier braids, with more ribbons. And beads. Fíli's beads. “You didn't waste any time securing your place, did you?” 

Ori bristles, angry and offended and _hurt_. “Do you really think I would do that?” Because that hurts, that tears at Ori like nothing has in awhile. “Really? Do you think so little of me?” 

“I thought you were smarter than to end up bearing before you were even a century old,” Nori says. He's judging Ori. He's really judging Ori, after everything he's done to Ori. 

“It was an accident,” Ori hisses into the dim room, defending himself even though he shouldn't have to. “And you were the one who told me I couldn't bear until I was of age, by the way.” He gestures to his belly. 

“Whether you're of age or not, you should be smart enough to tell someone not to finish in you, you little idiot!” Nori keeps his voice down, at least. Ori doesn't want Fíli to have to wake up and involve himself on Ori's behalf. “You're really carrying his sprog? You never even liked him! Does that make sense to you?” 

Ori covers his belly protectively. “You left me here on my own! You're my older brother, and you were supposed to take care of me! But you ran, like you always do. Does that make sense to you?” 

“Don't you dare think you're going to make this my fault,” Nori commands, as though he still has the right to order Ori about, as though he really is the first brother of the family now, and not the selfish idiot who ran off and left Ori here on his own. And Ori is angry, he's genuinely angry over this, but he's tearing up too, as he so often does these days. 

And he's going to be married to the king. Nori no longer has the right to anything of Ori's. “What exactly are you here for? To shout at me? You can do it in the morning. I'm going back to bed.” 

“Back to _his_ bed?” Nori asks, sneering. “We didn't raise you to be a king's whore.” 

“You didn't raise me at all,” Ori corrects, seething. “Mother and Dori did. You were never around long enough.” He's so angry, because it's not fair, it's not fair at all. “And I'm going to be his husband. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Congratulations, you're just in time for the celebrations.” The first part of the ceremonies begins tomorrow, even. Nori really is just in time, where Ori thought he would have no family at all here for it. 

Nori looks more shocked than he did when he saw Ori. “What?”

Ori sniffs, wrapping his arms around himself, resting just above his belly. He's young, and small, and they say that's why he's showing so much. “When I found out, Fíli asked me to marry him. I said yes. So we're getting married in three days, on the Solstice. Baby will be born near Durin's Day. Dáin is going to conduct the ceremony, even.” Seeing as how Ori's mother wouldn't be here until the end of the summer, Balin would be standing in her place to confirm her permission.

“Mother -”

“I wrote her when he asked. She agreed. She's eager to see her grandchild.” Parts of her answer had been tersely worded reprimands for being so foolish, but for the most part, she'd been pleased. Maybe if they hadn't lost Dori, she wouldn't have been so understanding. “Mother will be here before the autumn.” 

“She shouldn't be travelling,” Nori protests mulishly. 

“She wants to come home,” Ori says, shaking his head. “Even if it's just to die. She wants to be in Erebor again before that happens.” Reading that part of the letter had been the hardest bit of it. She was older by the time Ori was born, and her lungs have always troubled her. The journey to Erebor might be her last great effort, she had written, and maybe because Ori was bearing, getting married, she wrote to him how she would have written to Dori and Nori. _Honestly_. No longer sheltering him. 

Ori's been in a war, felt loss. Now he's bearing and set to be married. There's nothing left to shelter him from, even if he wishes he could be, at least from acknowledging the truth about his mother. The Princess and Gilah, Gimli's mother, had not lied to him either when he asked about her after they had arrived with the first group. “Mother isn't doing well, Nori. Gilah says the winter was hard on her.” While they were reclaiming a kingdom, their mother had languished in a sickbed, surviving. “I think me bearing made her happy.” 

Nori visibly swallows. “You don't even like him.”

“No, I didn't. But I do now. I trust him, more than anyone else.” Enough to sleep with him. Cling to him. Carry his child. Marry him. Ori _trusts_ Fíli. “Fíli didn't leave me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to get some stuff up for Christmas Day. I've been working long hours, and when I wasn't working, I kept getting sick and feeling utterly unmotivated to do anything at all. Then my laptop's health started to finally go before it died, so I couldn't write anything for awhile. I finally got a new one as an early Christmas present and damn if I haven't been having problems with my sight and looking at screens too long. Finally, I wake up today with the flu. Ach. So I hope everyone likes this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli!

“What are you making, my love?” 

Kíli doesn't look up at his mother, not wanting to be distracted. He's already cut himself twice since he started, and Tauriel will be upset if she sees more than that. He's been doing rather well at small things like this, after all, and whenever he slides back a bit, her eyes go very sad, and that's enough to keep him fighting to go forward. “A toy,” he answers, when he remembers his mother asked him a question. “For the baby.” 

It's not much, really. He's never been around a baby before, so he'd gone and asked Tilda what she knew. Bard's second daughter was often in Erebor proper now, helping mind the children. She has a good hand for them, and really, Kíli thinks she feels a bit like him, adrift. Taking care of the children keeps her busy. Kíli wishes he had some real task as well, but he doesn't think he'd be much good to anyone right now, not just yet.

Tilda had told him most babies liked something to grip and chew on, and then she'd drawn out one of the toys her neighbour had when he was an infant, showing him the size with her hands. Kíli can work with wood reasonably well, enough for an infant's toy. 

It makes him feel useful, working like this. 

His mother sits beside him, her skirts bustling in a familiar way, and watches him for a time. She has an air of wanting to know something though, also familiar, but Kíli can't dredge up his old impatience, hard as he tries. She'll talk when she wants to, and even if he'd rather she let him be, there's nothing he can do to stop her. 

He might be more generous if he didn't know what she wanted to ask. Tauriel and him have already spoken of it, Tauriel not exactly eager to express her worries to Kíli, not until he pressed. She'd seen the same things he had, and they'd been in agreement, as it seemed they were about most things. 

“You and Ori were always so close,” she says, and his hands are steady on the toy. He's proud of that. He's not sure he could have done so even two months ago. It gives him some much-needed confidence about tomorrow and his role in the wedding. Fíli and Ori would never forgive him if he accidentally lit them on fire. “But I always thought Fíli disliked him.” 

Kíli smiles, more at the thought than anything else. He has a brief, detached moment of the streets in Ered Luin, watching his brother grab Ori's satchel for the hundredth time and hold it over his head. Kíli had meant to step in, grab it back, because it didn't suit to tease Ori for long. He was too sensitive for it to be anything but cruel. Ori usually kicked people in the ankles when they teased him, in any case, but with Fíli, that day, he had forced himself into Fíli's space, using Fíli's shoulder for balance as he rose on to the tips of his toes and reached for it. 

Fíli had taunted him, still holding it out of reach, but Kíli had stayed where he was, watching, and feeling something sliding into place. Because he'd always wondered why Fíli had to bother Ori so much, and why Ori didn't just hit him, and suddenly, watching them, he thought he understood. 

They're in Erebor, he remembers, snapping out of the memory of Ered Luin's old cobblestones under his feet. This is Erebor, and the streets are smooth, perfectly-fitted stone tile. There are wood shavings by his feet though, but then, he made them. 

What is he doing? 

He turns the knife over in his hand, looks at the half-finished toy in the other, and shakes his head, knocking out the dust. He's in Erebor, and he's making a toy for his coming brother-child. And oh yes, his mother is insinuating unhappy things on the eve of his brother's wedding.

“Mother, Ori never let me have so much as a kiss unless I stole it.” He had, on occasion, when he'd been drunk or feeling wild, or both. Ori had always laughed and pushed him away, until the one time Kíli was both very drunk and very wild, and had kept on. Ori had punched him in the head then, scowling and red-faced from drink. They two have never spoken of it, possibly because Ori doesn't remember, possibly because he's Kíli's friend and he knows Kíli is ridiculous at times. “Fíli is the sire. Ori was miserable over it when he admitted it, but considering he was being sick in my sink at the time...” He means it as a joke, but his mother doesn't smile. 

She hasn't really seemed to smile at all since she arrived. Somehow, he thought she'd be happy to be here in Erebor, for the baby, even with Thorin gone. 

The thought of Thorin still causes that indescribable pain in his chest, even all these months later. He doesn't much remember his father, but Thorin had always been there, and Kíli had loved him so much. All he'd ever wanted was to be everything Thorin thought he could be. He hadn't been quite like Fíli, his brother wanting more to be like Thorin than himself, and before, he'd always assumed Fíli would grow out of it. 

But Thorin's dead, and Fíli won't grow out of it now. “Ori is good for him, Mother. Fíli says having Ori there helps him feel more himself.” His brother had even laughed, settling back against the wall they'd been sitting against far up on the top of the Gates. It was hard to feel like royalty when someone who had known you back when you were just a hired guard for merchants or a fiddler playing in a tavern was right there beside you. “Thorin knew it was going to happen.”

“Kíli, that was just a joke, they were all just joking,” his mother says, touching his shoulder unexpectedly. It startles Kíli, and he flinches away, his grip tightening on the knife and the toy. 

Her hand falls, and he feels the twist of guilt over it, but he's still not ready for her to touch him without warning, and now he's too unsettled to let her try again. “No. When we were staying in the shapeshifter's house, Beorn, Uncle and I were talking.” Ori had been sitting by the fire with Nori, brushing Nori's hair out for him. Fíli had been tuning his fiddle, close to the pair of them, and when Ori had snapped at him to either put it away or play, Fíli had smirked and started up a bawdy love song. Ori had reddened and not said one more word.

Kíli had said, “Wonder when Ori will finally let Fíli tumble him.” 

His uncle had been smoking his pipe, and he'd laughed, but then he'd said, “He's going to get that boy in a family way before they're married, mark my words.”

“Married? Them?” For a moment, it had seemed funny, until Kíli looked back at them, and for the hundredth time since that day in Ered Luin, wondered. 

They had enjoyed themselves the rest of the night, Fíli and Kíli eventually playing a few songs together, Dwalin joining in on his viol while Bombur pounded on a drum he'd found in the corners of Beorn's hall. Beorn had clapped along after a time, smiling big, eventually joining in once he understood the chorus of the songs. They'd all been happy to be somewhere safe, somewhere warm. Happy to have music, even with Orcs on their tail.

“Kíli?” 

He's gone quiet for too long. He keeps doing that. Fíli, Ori, and Tauriel usually let him be, and Gimli is learning, but his mother is looking at him in a way he doesn't much like. “I'm not broken, Mother.” 

“You're not yourself,” she pleads.

“I am, though,” he refutes, concentrating on carving the toy again. “You wanted me to grow up, and so I did, but I think it went a bit faster than it should have. You just have to give me a moment to catch my breath.” He runs his hands over the toy, feeling for anywhere too blunt for sanding. Everything feels right, so he sets aside his knife, and reaches for the sandpaper he has set beside him. Tauriel had gotten it for him when he told her what he was about. He'll sand it down smooth, then carve his mark in it somewhere and finish it. That way, his brother-child grows up knowing who he is, right from the start. “I think they're going to look like Fíli. He wants it to look like Thorin, and I think Ori wants it to look like Dori, but I think it's going to look like Fíli, mostly.” 

He doesn't know quite what he expects his mother to say to that, but it certainly isn't, “I expect it'll be a red-headed Firebeard before that.”

Kíli looks up at her, puzzled now as to what she means by the joke for a few too-long moments. When he does see she's serious, he wets his bottom lip and says, “You really are upset about the baby.” He doesn't think he would have understood even before the quest, so he's not too bothered over his confusion on the whole matter. “Mother, Fíli is happy -”

“Your brother is more foolish than I can believe,” she hisses, and he thinks she might be starting to cry. She is, he sees, when he looks at her. “He appoints Dwarves we do not know, he makes deals with the Elves and Men that betrayed us, he gives into their every whim and wish and he doesn't listen to my counsel, _mine_ , no, your brother hears only Ori's words. I doubt he hears even you.” 

She's wrong, a troubling thing to accept about his mother. True, Kíli has felt the divide between his brother and himself becoming something more than his own need for isolation. They've always been close, and he doesn't think the pair of them ever won't be, but he thinks that everything going on, not just the baby, means things will be different. Fíli isn't allowed to be young any more. Kings cannot be children. 

And it does bothers him, in the sense he would rather be a lad in Ered Luin again many days, and have things be how they always were. But at the same time, he doesn't want to be as his uncle was, as his mother still is. He doesn't want to live in the past, longing for something that's long gone. “I have very little worth saying as of late,” he jokes. “Fíli seeks me out when he needs me though.”

It had been Ori who told Kíli he had to stop hiding from Fíli, if only because it gave Ori a monstrous headache when Fíli was upset over not being able to find him. So he stopped, and now his brother sits with him to talk, though they don't much talk about songs, or games, or pretty lads and lasses. Fíli asks him what he thinks of the Dwarves coming to Erebor, of their demands, of taxes and appointments. 

One night in recent memory, while they sat on one of the walls, overlooking all that lay outside the kingdom that was now theirs, Fíli had asked him if he thought it was worth it. “We lost Thorin,” he'd said, not looking at Kíli. He had seemed older, and not at all like Kíli's warm and cheerful brother. He had seemed more like Thorin than Kíli could ever have fathomed, like Thorin's true son. Always, Kíli had known that despite the way Thorin indulged him and protected him, Fíli was his true favourite. Thorin had trusted Fíli completely, relied upon him, and he had thought then that if it had been Fíli injured by the Orc's arrow, Thorin would have believed he could carry on. He would never have doubted Fíli. 

As he had looked at Fíli then, clothed in a fur-lined coat with the crown upon his head, the moonlight creating the illusion that his older brother was carved from stone and silver and starlight, Kíli had realised truly for the first time that Fíli, laughing, teasing, clever Fíli, was the king of all of Erebor, and he would never again not be.

It had been sobering, another rope thrown to Kíli to pull him into the here and now. 

“Thorin thought so,” he'd answered. 

“I don't know how to be him. I don't how he carried this weight for so long, truly I...” Fíli had closed his eyes, and seemed so tired. They were all of them, the eleven left of their original fourteen, so tired. 

Briefly, Kíli considered Bilbo, the last of them, off back to his green hills and dirt roads that went nowhere but in circles. The sudden shock of anger was surprising, enough he had looked to his brother to ask, “Bilbo did not even stay long enough to see him laid to the stones. The hearts of Hobbits are not as ours, are they?” 

Fíli had said nothing, but he hadn't had to. In this, they were of one mind. It had all fallen apart, and Thorin had been mad, truly he had, but he had still loved the pair of them and Bilbo, and while they had stood by their uncle, Bilbo had not. Perhaps it was foolish, but Kíli could not forgive him for not even trying. 

“He will find another,” Kíli had continued bitterly, angry, and glad for the anger, because anything was better than nothing. “He will, won't he? He will find another, and they will live in his heart where Thorin should always be, and he will forget.” 

“Perhaps Dwarves love too hard, any way,” his brother had said, but not elaborated, and Kíli had chosen to leave it alone. 

Sometimes now, he watches Fíli around Ori, and doesn't know quite what to think. 

Now, beside his mother, he sees her worry, the way she clutches at the two of them. She misses them, who they were. “Mother, Fíli is king now.” And what is Kíli? Second in line for the throne after the baby is born. It's still close enough to keep him up at night. “Maybe if you were nicer to Ori, he wouldn't be so short with you.” 

Not just because of the baby, Kíli thinks. Because they know Ori, they trust him. He lost someone in the war too, lost _Dori_. He's been by their side this whole time, been helping keep it all together. Ori deserves respect, at the very least.

“Children shouldn't be having children,” his mother says. 

“We're not children any more.” 

She doesn't say anything else, but he thinks she tries a few times, before changing her mind. He likes having her beside him now that the conversation is over, and they can just sit. It reminds him of being home in Ered Luin, only here in Erebor, and that's nice. It makes Erebor feel less intimidating. 

He wants to ask his mother how she managed living in a palace, but he doesn't think her answer would be much different from Thorin's, and Kíli doesn't want to think about Thorin just now. 

They sit together for awhile, Kíli unable to quite keep track of the time very accurately. He does know it's been awhile, because he hears the soft sound of Tauriel's boots behind him, and she wasn't due back for awhile. She lingers behind them for a moment, maybe wondering if she should interrupt, so Kíli says, “Evening, Tauriel.”

“Hello Kíli,” she replies, coming out to join them. She sits on the ground instead of the bench, ever mindful of the differences in their heights, and perhaps attempting to endear herself to his mother a bit more. “Lady Dís.” His mother is no longer a princess, not really, but no one would dare refer to her in a common sort of way. “It's coming along very well, Kíli. When are you going to give it to them?”

“After the baby is born,” he answers. “The First Toys are only presented when the baby is born.” She looks up at him curiously, and he thinks to explain it to her later. Not when his mother is here. “Gimli and I still need to finish the cradle.” He feels a bit more confident now that the toy is shaped in his hands. “He's gotten a bit ahead of himself, I think.” The sketches he'd shown Kíli were good, but he's not sure they're within Gimli's abilities, and the balance of a cradle is important. He doesn't want his brother-child accidentally tipping out. “How did the surveying go?” 

Tauriel and several light-footed Dwarves have been testing out areas of the city, slowly pushing out the safe area and finding the places in desperate need of repair before anyone enters. Kíli knows if he was better, he'd be with them, and he'd enjoy it. 

Maybe he would now too, as long as he went slowly. 

“Gul fell today.” When she turns her head away, her mouth drawn in a serious line, he has a brief flicker of want, an almost unfamiliar feeling now. He can never seem to find it any more, that part of him that liked to look at girls and make them smile, but he still notices the way her hair sweeps across the length of her neck. Tauriel is an exception to everything though, as always, the soldier still so far above him and all the rest of the world. 

His mother has stiffened beside him. He doesn't have to glance at her to know how cold she's gone. She's made no secret of her disapproval, no matter how Ori and Óin had tried to explain things. Kíli doesn't blame her for her grudge against Thranduil's people; their people wandered in poverty, without their ally, and why? A necklace? A grudge?

He might live a thousand years, and never understand the ways of people. 

“Are they all right?” Kíli asks, worried. 

“Broken leg.” That's not a good thing. Gul is one of their best, their feel for stone uncanny. “I was the one at fault as well. We were surveying the roofs in the neighbourhood Lord Balin says the miners resided in. Gul and I went first, and we were not careful. Gul fell, and I was not fast enough to catch them.” 

Kíli touches her shoulder, feeling her deceptively slight bones under his own heavy hand. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. And better a broken leg than a broken back. They're not dead.” Though Gul is probably in a great amount of pain right now, they wouldn't disagree, Kíli is sure. 

“Perhaps it's time you left such tasks to more experienced hands,” his mother says. Kíli rolls his eyes, surprising himself with his own cheek. “I have brought many Dwarves from Ered Luin, and they have all been raised in rock.” 

Tauriel smiles. “It is no trouble, my Lady. I enjoy being useful. And I've been told my step is very useful in the darker areas of the settlement.”

“Tauriel's weight is light, and she moves faster than our own kind, Mother. She might step somewhere a Dwarf cannot, to reach a safer area,” Kíli explains. “The teams have been grateful to her for her effort on our people's behalf, as has Fíli. We've been thankful for her talents with healing as well.” 

There's no magic in what she does for him, oddly enough. Kíli had expected magic, like when she had saved his life before. No, instead she speaks with him every day, asks him questions. She helps him relearn his old skills, such as carving and music. They walk together outside the mountain, and sometimes they do not speak, but often they do. He had mentioned some days ago he felt ready to hold a bow again, and she had smiled down at him. 

The part of him that had wanted Tauriel has yet to fully reawaken, but the part that wished to hand over his heart has never stopped. When he's with her, he feels it reaching out for her, wishing to share in her strength and kindness, her wit and her laughter. And she does share. One day he might again want more from her, but since she does not press, he doesn't think he's disappointing her.

His mother does not press the issue any further, maybe seeing he's becoming tired of the topic. He can feel himself wavering in his focus, as the tension refuses to dissolve. If he has to choose, he doesn't know which he would. He's missed his mother, but she refuses to bend. He loves Tauriel, but she is not of their people. It's awkward in a way he doesn't remember ever being before. He could have laughed his way out of this before. 

“I forgot,” he says instead of laughing. “I promised Ori I'd visit him today.” He didn't, he doesn't think. He's not always sure he remembers days and such correctly, because sometimes he doesn't. It would make sense for him to visit tonight though, considering what's happening tomorrow. “Would you like to come?” 

Tauriel is standing again, looking down at him in her own fond way. “No. I think more than one visitor is too much for him at the end of the day, especially this night.” Her mouth quirks in a sly smile, and she adds, “And your brother always seems eager for everyone to be gone from their rooms in any case.” 

It makes Kíli smile, though he isn't sure it's quite what she thinks. 

“I intended to see Dwalin at the end of today,” his mother says, standing. “Send my regards.” She kisses his brow lightly, Kíli ducking his head for her to do it without thought. “And...” She doesn't finish for so long, Kíli looks at her, wondering what she's too nervous to say. He knows she's nervous because she has that look she gets, where she looks away from his eyes and purses her lips. Her shoulders tense too, her grip on his arms tightening briefly.

It's so like Thorin, and Kíli doesn't know what to do about that. His mother and uncle were so alike in their gestures, their mannerisms, their speech. Completely different in their personalities, Thorin always so indulgent and good-natured with his and Fíli's antics, his poor mother tired of their nonsense and needing them to settle down. 

He loves his mother so much, but she's so like Thorin, and he loved Thorin. And Thorin is dead. Thorin won't smile any more, or laugh, or indulge Kíli. He's dead. Dead people can't love you.

After a rather long pause, she says, “Remind Ori that he must rest more. He's young, and stress will do neither of them any good.” It's her attempting to make up with him, and he's grateful for the effort.

“I will,” he says, but does not promise. 

Finding Ori in the ruins of the palace is easy enough. Kíli goes to the great private library contained within, one of the few grand rooms unharmed by Smaug. It had been on the opposite end of the palace from the treasury, and no one had been foolish enough to flee there when the wyrm came, except for perhaps the mice and spiders. It's clean now, in any case, and all Kíli has to do is follow the lanterns to Ori, sitting on a shabby old chaise with a book resting on his belly. Bifur nods at Kíli from the shadows, his axe catching the light of the fire in the brazier. 

Bifur waves his hand and grunts, catching Ori's attention, so he'll look up. When he sees Kíli, he smiles, letting Kíli lift his feet and sit, with Ori's feet on his lap. Ori has taken to wearing soft shoes again now that they're in Erebor, gifts from Dáin's people, or maybe a child's shoe from the Men, depending on the day. Either way, it's easy enough to work his hand into the ball and arch of Ori's left foot, making his friend smile more. “Have you come to see me?” Ori asks. 

“The fairest face in all of Erebor?” Kíli jokes, Ori laughing. “Of course I have. Never doubt my devotion.” 

“Never,” Ori says, playing along. He lays his book aside and settles a hand on his swollen belly, exhaling. “He's kicking hard tonight. Want to feel?”

Kíli would like nothing better, and he takes the offer, placing his palm against the spot Ori places it. He hardly has to wait a moment before he feels his brother-child. “Strong little creature,” he praises, meaning it. He's never been around anyone bearing, not anyone he was close to, close enough to be allowed to feel. He's fascinated by the way he can feel the bairn move about, but as always, just as soon as the babe kicks, it falls still. “Why do they always do that? Kick as though they've gone mad, and then lie still?”

Ori shrugs. “Just how he is, I suppose. I wonder what he's going to be like?”

“I can't wait to meet my brother-daughter,” Kíli teases, and gets kicked for it. “You can't really know. It's impossible. And they might be both, or even neither, for all you know.” 

“I hate it when you're right,” Ori mumbles. “For all I know, you are. I just...” He looks down and bites his lip. “Promise you won't laugh?” 

“You know me too well to ask for that promise,” Kíli reminds him. 

It makes Ori laugh, and Ori laughing always makes Kíli smile. He still says, “If you tell Fíli, I'll order someone to thrash you. Bifur would do it, you know.” Kíli winks at Bifur, and though Bifur smiles, he puts his hand on his axe and raises his eyebrows. 

“No fair using your relations against me,” Kíli says without thinking. He regrets it the moment Ori's smile fades and Bifur fades back in the gloom. It's not as though none of them amongst the Company were ignorant of the way Bifur and Dori were about one another, and Kíli had seen them together in Ered Luin. But he thinks things might have been more complicated than Bifur simply being Dori's lover, because no one seems to regard Bifur as as a widower. “Forgive me,” he says, more to Bifur than Ori. “You know me; too stupid to think before I talk.” 

Bifur signs his forgiveness, but it takes a little longer for the chill to melt from Ori's face. It's a bit funny, but Kíli hopes the baby has Ori's eyes, that dark colour that makes it difficult to tell what exactly Ori is thinking. That's a good trait for a king to have. With Fíli, and his blue eyes and easy expressions, it's obvious when he has no patience with a person, when he cannot stand them. 

“I...” Ori swallows, prominent in the light of the brazier. “I had a dream. It wasn't like a usual dream. Or maybe it was. My mother, you know, she reads the stones when people ask her. And Dori could too. Nori never had the knack, and I never learned. But I dreamed, and it wasn't a dream, or at least I don't think so.” Kíli sits a bit straighter over the course of the speech, curious. Glori had been a stone-reader, he knew that, but for all the time he's known Ori, Ori had never given a copper towards the art. “I saw a boy. He had golden-hair, and blue eyes, and he was my son. I held him, and he was mine.” Kíli doesn't know what to say to that. “Maybe it was just a dream. But I still see him, and think he might be real.” 

“Maybe you shouldn't drink an entire kettle of tea before bed,” Kíli says, instead of outright dismissing the whole idea. He's never held much stock in those sorts of dreams, and that's not going to change just because it's Ori. “Blond hair is lucky though, no matter the rest.”

“It is, isn't it?” He's looking at his book again, and when Kíli peers closer, he sees it's from the Iron Hills. Ori notices him looking, and sighs. “There's not much on the Dwarrows of the East that's not covered in mould. Little Thorin sent me some books when I asked. He's even met Queen Uzma a few times. Says she's an old battle-axe, enough so she leaves Dáin quaking. I don't want us going in blind when her emissaries arrive.” 

Kíli smirks. “Rather sure you shouldn't be thinking of these things on the eve of your wedding.” 

“Rather sure I shouldn't be showing on the eve of my wedding,” Ori replies, raising his eyebrows. When Kíli shrugs, laughing despite himself, Ori kicks at him. “I need to do something. Fíli is still in Court, and I...” His friend's smile falls, though he hitches a careless shoulder. “The bed is really big. It's uncomfortable when I'm on my own.”

Often at night, Kíli finds himself drinking a bit more than he should to force himself to sleep, and even then, his nightmares are never far outside his reach. He doesn't think it's much different for his brother or Ori. “If you're asking for company,” he says, instead of being serious, and again, Ori kicks him. “Better not say that where Fíli can hear.” 

Ori looks away, at his book and then the brazier. “You heard about Nori visiting?” Kíli nods, because every one of the Company had heard Fíli's fury over the matter today. Sneaking into the royal bedroom is no mean feat considering what had happened with Socorro, and Kíli thinks that might be what scared Fíli, far more than Nori's words and frankly insulting insinuations. “He's really upset. He offered to take me to the East.” Ori rubs his belly, shaking his head. “You would think no one knew Fíli's character. Two now have offered to take me away. Like he isn't one of the best people they've ever known, like he wasn't born to be a king...”

Kíli stares. He cannot help it. He has nothing to say to that, not even a joke because Ori just described _Fíli_ as one of the best people he's ever known, and that's...

Well. That's something.

“Wait, who else offered to take you away?” Kíli knows one must be Nori, but who else would be so arrogant? 

“Bofur,” Ori replies quietly, without looking up at Bifur. 

“But why would he...” Kíli starts and is answered without words as he sees the way Bifur sighs and Ori flushes with embarrassment. “Right then. That's that though. And tomorrow is still tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I'm marrying Fíli,” Ori confirms. 

Kíli is still a bit stuck on Ori calling Fíli one of the best people he knows. He knows things have been more than a bit different between them all for awhile, but there's something about it that he's not sure he likes. “Do you really think is the best plan?” 

“I really can't do this right now.” Ori sets his book aside and swings his legs out of Kíli's lap. “If you're changing your mind, I swear, I'll thump you.”

“What?” It takes him a minute to realize what Ori thinks, but once he does, Kíli reaches out for Ori and yanks him close, dishevelling his braids. “No, don't sulk at me. I'm more than ready to no longer be the youngest brother. And with you around, that's less royal work for me.” 

“I can always count on you to see the bright side of things,” he mumbles. He stays against Kíli, a comfortable enough position for Kíli, and huffs. “I'm tired.” If he means to do anything about it, he doesn't say, just stays curled up against Kíli. It's nice actually. Ori is warm and soft and familiar and it feels good to be useful, even if it's only as a pillow. 

Truthfully, he knows Ori has been carrying more than his fair share of the workload around Erebor. Kíli should be doing more, should be behaving as Fíli's right hand, as the prince of Erebor. It's just been...what it is. “I think I'm going to join the Hunt tomorrow.” 

“Really?” Ori turns his head, too excited over such a small thing. There should be no question of it, not in usual circumstances. Kíli is Fíli's brother and Ori's friend. If anything, he should lead the party itself. “You don't have to if you don't want to.” 

“I'm not making a promise,” Kíli cautions. “I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow. But I think it's time to try. It'll make Tauriel happy too.” 

“And we all know how much you'd like to please her.” 

Kíli pinches him, knocking their heads together. “If I didn't know better, I'd think the very proper Prince Consort just implied something a little dirty.” 

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to bed my intended,” a voice says, half-laughing, and Fíli steps into the full light, smiling at them both. He smacks Kíli on the shoulder and reaches for Ori with the other hand, pulling him to his feet. “And speaking of bed, you should be headed there.” 

Ori leans into Fíli a bit more than Kíli expects, a bit more than he needs to, if Kíli had to guess. “I really hope that wasn't your one good idea of the day,” Ori says. 

“I really hope you're nicer to me in our wedding bed,” Fíli counters, sneering, but with no real nastiness in it. Not like before, when there had been genuine dislike between the pair of them. Or what Kíli thought was genuine dislike. “Though I suppose it doesn't really matter, does it?” He settles his hand over Ori's belly, and Kíli wants to ask what it's like to feel a half-carved child in someone's belly and know it's yours. It seems so odd. Not in a bad way, just so outside of Kíli's grasp on things he can't quite imagine it. He's felt his brother-child kick, and he's looking forward to meeting them properly, truly. 

Sometimes, the thought of his brother-child, whoever they might be, is one of the few reasons he has for pushing forward and carrying on. He wants to be a good uncle so much. He'll never be Thorin, and he never wants to take Fíli's place as Thorin had to with them and their own father, but he wants his brother-child to love him and trust him. He knows he'll love them on first sight, that's no issue. He'd love any child of Fíli's or Ori's, and the fact it's both of theirs just makes it all the better. 

A good uncle is not someone who gives into the worst of themselves. Kíli wants to be the best uncle. 

Fíli and Ori have been silent as long as he has, or so Kíli thinks. He comes back to the world to see they have completely forgotten him and Bifur, that Fíli is speaking softly to Ori, but not so softly Kíli doesn't hear the teasing affection in his words. “Imagine how strong they're going to be,” Fíli is saying. “Dori would be proud.” 

Ori nods, looking up at Fíli in such a way it causes a stab of discomfort to Kíli. “And if he's like me?” 

“Is that any different?”

Kíli finds himself meeting Bifur's eyes in the shadows, and he thinks maybe Bifur sees what he does. He might love them both very well, but there's no room for him between them anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

_“The Moon, her light, it glows for you, and the stars were forged, just to light your face,”_ Fíli sings in Khuzdul, his eyes on Ori's belly. He's sitting over Ori, an arm braced against the small of Ori's back, his side pressed against Ori's thighs. Ori is curled up, clutching at the pillow his head is on. 

“He cannot hear you,” he says, trying to convince himself he doesn't love Fíli's voice. He always could sing, unfortunately, and Ori had hated how much he liked it when Fíli graced the restaurant with a song. 

Fíli smirks at him. “You don't know that.” Then he keeps on with the song, his voice filling Ori's head when Ori closes his eyes. 

Their wedding clothes are scattered about the room, and Ori feels bad about it, but there had just been so many of them, and he'd been so tired by the time they'd managed to retreat to their rooms, he just cannot make himself leave the bed now. The world outside their room is a little too much right now, after Ori had stood with only Bifur as his family, and Balin to speak for his mother. “I didn't know my feet could ever hurt this much,” he says, when the song ends and Fíli begins to hum absent-mindedly. “I thought I was going to cry.” 

“I know,” Fíli says, and when Ori looks at him, he smirks again, the arsehole. No one should be so handsome when they're smirking. “Why did you think I called for us to go to bed so soon?” He sits up straighter, taking the weight off his supporting arm and instead rubbing the back of Ori's thigh, kneading into the sore muscle in a way that has Ori sighing in relief. “You kept doing that thing, where you shift your weight back and forth. Figured you were miserable enough, and they'll drink all night and into the morning, most likely, even without us there.” 

Ori can't help it; he laughs. “Likely. Dáin is still taking challengers.” His feet are hurting so badly still, but it's not so bad he wants to cry anymore. It was really that bad by the time Fíli and he came into the bedroom, for more than one reason. “I thought he was going to bring his boar in.”

“He still might. Wouldn't put it past him.” In the firelight, with his braids undone now, he looks more like himself again, and not like he's trying to be Thorin. Ori doesn't want him to be Thorin. Thorin was far-away and unknown. He knows Fíli. He needs someone to know right now. “Has the baby been kicking?” 

“I think he was asleep for most of the ceremony, but he's starting to move around again.” If Ori wasn't so tired and half-sad, he might be sentimental enough to blame Fíli's singing. There's no denying that his touch definitely stirs the child. No one else's touch does, not the same way. “He didn't even wake up during the dancing.”

Fíli reaches forward, and touches Ori's face, tucking some of the stray hair from his undone braids back from where it's fallen across his cheek. He undid Ori's braids tonight, complaining the whole while about how tricky and silly they were the whole time, but never pulling Ori's hair once. He's never dared ask before. “I think we managed the dancing all right,” Fíli says, raising his eyebrows in camaraderie with Ori. Neither of them had even thought to practise beforehand, because neither of them had even remembered the tradition until Dáin had called for the musicians to start playing. Ori had sworn under his breath and Fíli had laughed, but taken Ori's hand and led him out to the floor. It had been the first time during the whole ceremony Ori had felt like laughing too, as he was led out, away from the memories of everyone who should have been sitting at his side. “Hey, Ori, do you remember dancing before? In Ered Luin? During the Blood Moon Festival?” 

“I didn't until we stepped out,” Ori confesses, smiling. He had remembered it the moment he was out on the floor and giving Fíli the lead position, the memory of being in the same position once before. “I think that was the first time I ever liked you.”

It had been the first festival Ori attended with someone; an apprentice carpenter. He'd asked Ori a few days before, and Ori had been excited. He'd even woven some goldenrod and asters in his hair with a brown ribbon Dori had left over in his scrap basket. Only Alfr, the lad who had asked him, had spent half the evening joking with his friends, his arm tight around Ori, and drinking far too much. When the dancing had finally started as the eclipse began, he had all but yanked Ori amongst the others. Ori hadn't been sure what to do, embarrassed and off-kilter, until another hand secured itself on the small of his back and Alfr's shoulder, stilling them both, and there had been Fíli, easily snatching Ori out of Alfr's arms and leading him out amongst the dancers as his own partner. 

Ori had stared, his body following Fíli's in a dance he'd known since he was a child, and really, now that he thinks about it, they always had known how to move together. Fíli had gone a whole song with him before passing him off to Kíli, and neither of them had ever really talked about it then or since. Tonight, they'd settled together just as easily. There are benefits to knowing someone one's whole life. “Why did you help me, back then?”

“I don't know,” Fíli says, shrugging. He looks to the fire, his hand still on Ori's face. “You had all these flowers in your hair. I knew you wouldn't have done that if you didn't like him. But you looked so unhappy. And he was being an arse anyway, the way he was dragging you around, and telling all his mates how he'd bagged a 'Ri.” 

“Are you saying you _cared_?” Ori teases. 

“No,” Fíli insists, but he leans over and kisses Ori's temple. And lingers. “Yes. No matter what I did to you, you always just got angry. You never looked...I don't know. Like you did then. And Kíli and Gimli would have started a fight if they'd heard, and I would have to save their stupid arses.” He exhales hard through his nose. “I don't know. I just hated him right then. I don't know. Can you just kiss me, so I stop talking?” Ori turns his face up, and Fíli tilts his down, and they kiss. “You're a hero of Erebor now, Ori. No one will ever make you look like that again.” He huffs. “Also, I think being married to the king will help.” 

“It could,” Ori concedes, enjoying the feel of the new pillows. They'd been finished two days ago, to replace the ones Dáin's people had provided them with in the beginning, as part of a wedding gift from Dale. They're soft, thick cotton, stuffed with goose down, just like the new blanket, and cool under his face. It's not Dori's stitch, or Nori's, and one breaks his heart far more than the other, but if Ori thinks about it, he'll start to cry, so he keeps talking. “Did you ever think you'd be married to me?”

Fíli smirks, and Durin's name, _he's so unfair_ , and cages Ori in with both arms, his long hair just brushing Ori's face. “Figured we'd fuck at some point. Never thought it would be anything. Or that we'd have a baby.” His smirk softens and grows into a proper smile, like he's been smiling all day, his eyes bright even in the dark of their bedroom. Ori's heart rushes, and he tries to quiet it, remind himself this is _Fíli_ , but it refuses. “So...Your Highness...”

“Your Majesty,” Ori says back, unsure of himself, but still laughing when Fíli presses his mouth against the soft parts of his neck and shoulder. “Don't, I'm just all settled. You'll have him moving more, and -” he gasps, because their son suddenly goes from idle movements to a full toss, and Ori will _never_ get used to that feeling. 

“Him?” Fíli is so eager, changing his position so he can press both hands against Ori's stomach, Ori settling back and trying to catch his breath because the baby keeps moving now, and it's become much less a flutter and more like having an eel in his belly. “He's definitely awake now. He must be like you, up at all the odd hours.” 

“Maybe,” Ori concedes. He's so tired right now, but it's the funny sort of tired where he doesn't want to sleep, just lie in the soft nest of covers and pillows and Fíli, and occasionally close his eyes for a long while. His heart is still fluttering, and it shouldn't be. “Fíli...” 

There's a long silence, because Ori doesn't know how to fill it, isn't quite sure it's even right to say what he needs to say, and after a moment, Fíli asks, “What?”

“I cannot live like this, in Erebor, not forever,” he admits quietly into the pillow. “I miss the sun, and the sky.” He misses the never-ending blue, and the clouds, and the stars, and the rain. “Bifur says there's some areas that have been surveyed, good areas, and there used to be all sorts of terraces. Once everything is settled, and everyone is housed, I want one cleared.” It feels fair to him, as long as everyone's basic needs are already met, that he have something for himself. 

“You want to raise our son like we were raised? We're hardly considered proper Dwarrows, to some of our people. Is that what you want them to think of our son?” 

A flash of self-righteous anger has him sitting up, drawing away from Fíli. “There's nothing wrong with the way we were brought up! And if anyone says anything about our son, they can decide if my sword is Dwarven enough for them when I -” He cannot finish, because Fíli has stopped managing to hide his laughter. “You were just winding me up, weren't you?” 

“Maybe a little,” Fíli answers. He gets up out of the bed with a groan, and holds his hands out. “Come on,” he orders. “Up.” Ori gets up, taking Fíli's hands, and follows him out of their rooms, and into the empty hallway, unsure of what exactly is going on, right until Fíli opens two big doors, and the night sky and fresh air and stars are all around the pair of them. His feet really do still hurt, especially on the little glass tiles under his feet now, as he steps further out into the damp summer air. “I had planned on us having breakfast out here...”

“You're such an arse,” Ori whispers, but he settles into Fíli's arms when they come around him. 

They stand there together, under the stars, breathing, and it's not quite the same. The Long Lake is freshwater. There's no salt tang in the smell or taste of the water that permeates the air. But there is water. And there are lights down below, in Esgaroth, the old city still a lot of rope and temporary wooden platforms as the stonemasons and metalworkers work, but very much alive and working again. 

“Bifur said to consider it a wedding gift,” Fíli says. “He and some of his cousins from the Iron Hills did most of the work, but Gimli and a few of the young apprentices helped.” He rests his temple against Ori's shoulder. “Apparently they considered it a great honour to contribute to your wedding gift.” 

Ori feels the heat rise in his face, unexpectedly. “That's ridiculous,” he says, before he remembers. No matter how many times he tells himself that he's a hero of Erebor, it never seems to become a part of him. His hands settle on his belly, and he's reminded of the other things that haven't seemed to sink in. “What will he call us?”

“What did you call your sire?” Fíli's hands hover over Ori's before Ori links their fingers together. “I never knew mine, and my mother has always called him by his name.”

“I called mine by their name too,” Ori answers. “They did not live with us. They're a trader. Dori's other mother died in Azanulbizar, and Mama never allowed Nori's sire around.” 

“Why?” 

The terrace is bigger than Ori thought could be managed in such a short time, and without his notice either. Ori hadn't thought about what the workers were doing in the palace, assuming they were surveying or rebuilding support areas. A lot of it seems to be the original structure, but the floor couldn't have lasted all these years untouched. They'd redone the mosaic, he's sure. “Is it a constellation?” he asks, instead of answering Fíli's question. 

He's too stubborn to be swayed, damn him. “What's wrong with Nori's sire, Ori?” 

“He's...” The new pendant around his neck is good for playing with to distract himself. He's been doing it all night, since Fíli put it around his neck. He's never liked rings, the way they interfere with his fingers when he's drawing or writing, so Fíli had made him this. A gold setting, holding a sapphire cut in the style of the seven stars of Durin, with Fíli's personal sigil set in the centre. It's much darker in this light, but where it does catch the moonlight, it's brighter, almost white. “He tried to steal Nori, when Nori was little. More than once. And he kept getting in lots of trouble in the settlement. Not like Nori's trouble. Real trouble. We stopped seeing him a long time ago, in any case. Either way, we never called him anything.”

Fíli is following along after him as Ori explores, close enough to touch him again. “I never heard about him. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked.” His fingers find the pendant too, following the chain down to Ori's fingers. 

“Never even told Kíli or Gimli that,” Ori blurts out, feeling it's important, for whatever reason. “You should lord it over them.” 

Fíli clicks his tongue. “No, see, I have bested Gimli so greatly, I never have to again.” He lets the necklace go so he can cup Ori's face and tilt it up for a kiss. “I,” he says, their temples touching, “got to marry you. He's never going to forgive me for it. Claims his heart is _utterly_ broken.” 

“He does not.” It's seemed so stupid every time Ori has really tried to grasp it in the few hours he's been married, but right now, it feels real. “We should let him pick, I think,” Ori says, his hands on Fíli's shoulders. He doesn't remember when he did that. “Whatever he calls us on his own. Dori...” He hates how he still sometimes has to catch his breath when he says his brother's name. “Dori, he always referred to his other mother as either Amad or Mama, just like he did Mama.” 

“Fair enough,” Fíli agrees, releasing Ori to do his own exploring. “I didn't think they'd finish in time, honestly. That's why I didn't tell you beforehand. They weren't even sure the supports were still good. I didn't want to get your hopes up. Or mine.” He drums his fingers on the smooth and shining stone railing, and Ori has to look away from him, because the moon is just a sliver shy of full, fat and heavy and almost orange in the summer sky, and the sky is clear, and Esgaroth is all alight still, and just with all of it, Fíli looks like both someone he's known since before he can remember and a complete stranger at the same time. 

They're not children anymore, and he's not the same Fíli who used to pull Ori's braids and make snide comments about his slingshot and his quills and his ribbons. He really is the king now, king of the greatest Dwarf Kingdom of the West, and he's the sire of the baby being carved in Ori's belly, and he's Ori's husband. 

And Ori trusts him. They're friends. 

None of those things were true just two years ago. “Your son is really kicking me now,” he complains, because he hates how comfortable their silence is, and he doesn't know what else to say. And it's true, in any case. 

“Oh, so he's _my_ son now,” Fíli laughs, and comes at Ori suddenly, grabbing him and actually _picking him up_ , and _really_ -

“You arsehole, put me down, right this minute -!” It would sound so much better if he wasn't laughing too, but he is, because they're married, oh, Durin's name, he's married to Fíli, he's the bloody Prince Consort, and now Fíli is linking the fingers of one hand, setting Ori back down, and they're dancing again. “No, don't make me lead, I'm a terrible lead, you're the musician!”

“You play the pipe,” Fíli reminds him. 

“Barely!” His music education was the basics, and he can play all the classics just fine, but he's never had any real love for it. Dancing hadn't been much different, but he's still better with his feet than his fingers when it comes to music. That doesn't mean he likes to lead, in any case. No, Ori has always liked listening and watching performances much more than participating. “There isn't even any music.”

It's the exact wrong thing to say to Fíli; he starts humming, of course, leading in all but actual pose as he encourages Ori around the terrace. He only keeps it up for another moment, Ori reluctantly trying to remember the steps the whole while. He's so much better with words and drawings and facts. Dancing is lovely, but he really doesn't like having to be the one to remember every next step.

Then they change, and his feet follow Fíli's now. “Tell me about the Sisters,” Fíli says, turning them around. “Remember? The constellation?”

“I told you,” Ori says, having a better time of it than before, during the wedding. Everyone had been watching them, and Ori had been starting to get a headache from the new circlet he'd had to wear. “Do I have to wear the circlet often? It feels odd.” 

“The crown gives me a headache too,” Fíli says, rolling his eyes. “We have to wear them in the court though, if we want the old nobles to actually listen to us. Wish I could just stab them instead.” He hums a little more, the same song the musicians had been playing during the wedding dance. Ori doesn't know it. He thinks it might be an Iron Hills song. “Bifur says the constellation in the mosaic is called The River. What is it?” 

Ori looks around above them, their movements slowing as he tries to find it. “There,” he says pointing up at the thick gathering of stars just barely visible behind the side of the side of the mountain. “You can see it better during the autumn and the beginning of the winter, I think. Supposedly, it's the scars of the first rain Yavanna used to make the land here grow...that she opened the sky, and created the Long Lake, and the water beneath, just as she did for all of our dwelling places, as a wedding gift to her husband.” He looks down, at the tiles below his feet. The tiles look brand-new in the spot they're over. “This isn't just a gift from Bifur and the others, is it?” 

“No.” Fíli shakes his head, his loose hair brushing his shoulders. “No, it's not.” 

“You don't have to keep apologizing for Socorro, you know.” They're both quiet for a moment or so, Fíli's expression stern. “What she did,” Ori continues, “or what she tried to do, that's not on you. I told you, people see me as a 'Ri still, they don't care what you say. What anyone says. They are never going to change their minds, I am always going to be a -”

He doesn't get a chance to say the word, because Fíli is kissing him again. It dies in Ori's mouth, and he's glad, because for all he says he's all right with it, that he understands, he's _not_. It makes him angry that they try and take Dori, who could best anyone in a fight, who could lift a battleaxe in each hand, who could work finer braids than anyone else in the world, who knew story-weave like the back of his hand, who was _brilliant_ , and they reduce him to nothing but a whore because of his face. 

Dori, who is a hero of Erebor, a member of the Company. 

Dori, who is dead. 

They talk and talk, and every word they say is an attempt to take Dori from Ori, to make Dori someone he wasn't. 

“You,” Fíli says, against Ori's mouth, barely a whisper. “Are a hero of Erebor. You're a brilliant scribe. And you and me are going to make Erebor as it was. For them. For our people. For our child.” His hands have found Ori's waist, near where their child is still carving, being shaped for the world. “They're not going to grow up like we did. Scared. Alone. They're going to grow up here. In a Dwarf kingdom. But they won't grow up as Thorin and my mother or even your mother did either. They're not going to be taught to fear this.” He hitches his chin up, and Ori knows what he means.

His mother had raised him up on stories of Erebor, of a mountain full of treasure and safe, heavy stone, blocking out all who refused to understand Dwarves. But Ori, and Fíli, and all their childhood companions, they'd all been raised in the wilder Ered Luin, with the gardens and the river and the sky. Ori grew up under the sunlight, and so did Fíli. 

“We're going to have to pick a name,” he reminds Fíli, before he thinks too hard about anything else right now. “I know people think we're going to name him Thorin -”

“No.” There's no hesitation. “He wouldn't want us to. It's too heavy. What about Dori?” 

Ori shakes his head, unable to explain why the thought makes his throat tighten up, but Fíli must see it, because he doesn't press. He holds him instead, lets Ori rest against Fíli's shoulder, one hand sliding into Ori's hair. “Not Thorin, but your mother, maybe?”

“Might help soften her up towards us,” Fíli says, his tone considering. 

“She can't get any angrier,” Ori replies.

♦

Lord Albin still dresses in black. It's somewhat annoying. Fíli isn't exactly sure what his reasons are, all he knows is that he's never been fond of people who wear black the way Lord Albin does. It's a very pointed way of wearing it, trimmed with silvers in an understated sort of way that draws attention to the elegance of the clothing.

He's still talking, Fíli realizes, and tries to listen. The lord has a tendency to use ten words where three would do, and after already listening to several appointments, Fíli doesn't have the attention left for him. He still has to hold council today, and that will take hours as well. He'll at least be able to see Kíli during the council. 

For now, he at least has Dwalin, standing at his right. The scribe sitting on the steps is all but a stranger to him, some young lass Ori had recommended. He'd rather have Ori, but the closer it comes to the time, the longer Ori spends in bed, and despite that one time before the wedding, all either of them have done in the bed is sleep. 

“Lord Albin, if you have a request, I would ask that you come to it quickly,” Fíli finally says, adjusting his sleeve. “There are other people waiting to be heard.” It's rude, but Fíli decides he's the king, and if anyone gets to be rude, it's him. 

“If you have a point, that is,” Dwalin mutters beside him. 

The lord licks his lips, looking down at the floor, then braces his shoulders and stands straight again. “The Silk District is beginning to operate again, Your Majesty, as I'm sure you've heard.” Fíli actually hadn't heard, but he doesn't much care either. The Silk District has always operated in some manner or another, even in Ered Luin, where there wasn't any silk to be had. “I am asking for the authority to rid Erebor of this vermin now, before the disease can spread. More guards will arrive from my settlement in but a month, and will of course be loyal to Erebor, and will be perfectly willing to do what is necessary to keep Erebor strong.”

Fíli feels Dwalin tense beside him, but he himself is confused. “I beg your pardon, Lord Albin, but are you asking for leave to arrest the workers in Silk District? For practising their trade?”

“If you could call what they do 'trade', Your Majesty,” Albin says, sneering. “I only seek leave to help Erebor be strong.” 

Something about it rings like an insult. Fíli remembers being younger, and far less sure of himself, and being taken to a pretty little tea house in Ered Luin by his mother, her assuring him that absolutely nothing had to happen, only he had to learn how to talk to people. She had stayed by his side as they were seated, and Fíli had almost considered choosing someone, until he noticed Dori, with his bright silver hair, still tipped with red, serving tea to a few miners. He had asked his mother to take him home then. 

It hadn't been about Dori. Dori likely wouldn't have cared one whit what a whelp like Fíli thought of him. It had been about Ori, even if Fíli refused to admit it back then. He didn't know. He couldn't know, Dori would have hidden it from him, and if Fíli stayed in that tea house, he would have known a secret he shouldn't, and he never would have been able to look Ori in the face again, and he didn't like the idea. 

Why he hadn't liked the idea was still something he didn't quite understand. 

“Whatever it is you're seeking, Lord Albin, I must deny,” Fíli says, leaning forward. “The Silk District is completely legal in Erebor, as I'm sure you must know, and I do not plan on changing that.” 

Something in Lord Albin's expression hardens in a way that sets Fíli's teeth on edge. Albin has been dismissive of Ori from the beginning, and now it feels like he's trying to imply something about families like Ori's. People like Dori, who worked hard all their lives to provide. Dori, who died for Erebor. “I only wish to say, Your Majesty -”

“Aye, what exactly is it you're trying to say?” Dwalin asks, stepping forward just enough Lord Albin is reminded of his presence. His eyes flicker up to Dwalin, and he seems at a loss for words for the moment. “From what I understand, Lord Albin, you don't even have a trade of your own, so why is it you believe yourself above those that do in fact have one?” 

“Forgive my bluntness, but whoring is not a trade,” Albin all but spits. “Your Majesty, you are young, and you have not seen the other options. In the North, we keep the chattel branded and under control of those -”

Fíli stands from the throne, and feels the way the guards in the room tense. He walks down the steps, until he stands three above Albin. Fíli is a tall Dwarf, even if he's not as tall as Dwalin, and he certainly towers over the lord in front of him. The other Dwarf watches Fíli, smiling, maybe thinking he has managed to sway Fíli over to his side of things. 

He hasn't. 

“If you ever refer to another Dwarf in this kingdom as _chattel_ again, I will have you stripped of your title and removed from these lands, along with the rest of your household. And if you ever so much as hint that you would see other people in this mountain enslaved to households, I will do much worse than that.” He could stop there, but he can only think of Dori. “I am not particularly inclined towards your settlement, at the time being, Lord Albin. One of yours tried to assassinate my husband, and my child.” 

Thinking of that still causes his heart to skip a beat, so he turns his back on Albin and ascends the steps again, just as Dwalin says to Albin, “If I were you, I'd hold my tongue, unless you want it cut from your head.” 

Fíli looks over his shoulder, too tired of all of it to bother with Albin's hurt feelings over Dwalin's threat. “Was there something else, Lord Albin?”

Anyone sensible would remain silent. Lord Albin is apparently not all that sensible. “You say _your_ child, Your Majesty. But he's a 'Ri. Are you really so sure he's telling you and the rest of us the whole story?” 

It's not Dwalin who reaches Albin first, Grasper already in hand, it's Fíli, one of his knives pressed to Albin's throat, a line of red welling up over the blade. “You forget your place, sir,” he warns. “I might be very young to you, but I am king in this mountain, and the Dwarf you speak of is a member of the Fourteen, far cleverer than you will ever dream of being, my husband, and the bearer of the next ruler of Erebor. If you value the blood in your veins, you will never speak ill of him or his family again.” 

“Your Majesty,” Albin manages, and Fíli takes the blade away, tucking it back into its sheath. 

“You're dismissed,” Fíli says, as Albin rises again, clumsily gathering all his black clothes round himself. “Get out of my sight.”

He's at least not stupid enough to push his luck any further; Albin scurries out with his over-long sleeve pressed to his throat. Once he's out of sight, Fíli looks to Dwalin, hoping for some sort of assurance.

Dwalin huffs. “You should have let me do it.” 

“People like him need to remember I've killed more people than they've met,” Fíli replies bitterly. “Fucking Northerners.” 

“It's not all of them,” Dwalin cautions, Grasper still in hand. “Plenty of them are just looking to rebuild their lives, same as us.” He turns his eyes on the open doorway, checking for unintentional eavesdroppers. “But if I had to lay money down, I'd say that one knows more than most about what happened to Ori, and if I was being very ungenerous, I'd say some of the money that went towards buying the tunnel rat came from his purse.” 

Fíli frowns, his hand finding a knife by instinct. “Are you serious?” 

“Something about that one doesn't sit right,” Dwalin says, putting Grasper back in the harness with Keeper. “We should discuss it with the rest of the Council today. Make sure there's an eye on him. Your mother has already started to lay out her web, there have to be some amongst the Northerners. She wasn't happy to learn about the attempt on Ori.” 

“Could have fooled me,” Fíli scoffs. 

Dwalin swears, low under his breath. “Your mother has been doing her best, lad. And she cares about Ori, you know she does. She's just...you two were always at one another back in Ered Luin. And Thorin and I, we knew why, but your mother -”

“What does that mean?” Fíli demands, offended, even if he's not sure why. 

“It means you wanted to bed the lad, and everyone with eyes knew it,” Dwalin doesn't give Fíli time to argue, not that he really has one. He can admit he always admired Ori's form. The problem is acknowledging that maybe he admires much more than that. “Now, we all thought you two would sort yourselves out eventually, but -” 

“Your Majesty.” The servant who announces the appointments is standing far back from the steps, twisting their sleeves nervously. “Your Majesty, I am very sorry to interrupt, but the Messenger is waiting, and they say they have correspondence from Queen Uzma Glassaxe.” They bite their lip. “His Highness did say that her letters were of the utmost importance.” 

“They are, yes,” Fíli says, sitting back on the throne. “Announce them, please.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.” They incline their head and scurry out to do just that. 

Dwalin crosses his arms over his broad chest, and sighs through his teeth. “Don't know why you're bothering with the Eastern lot. Balin says -”

“Balin said the Northerners were trustworthy, loyal,” Fíli reminds Dwalin, trying not to snap. “I'm not my great-grandfather, Dwalin. I'll make my own choice in friends.” There's no need to add that Thror's choices had not proven all that wise in the end. Dwalin knows it better than Fíli.

The Eastern Queen's message is about the old trade roads and waterways, and their restoration. Before Smaug, the Iron Hills had been a frequently used resting point for traders from her kingdom, and the Elven and Men's caravans as well. After Smaug, it had become more of a permanent outpost, and the safe roads and stopovers had faded and rotted away. Her missive bid the roads and guard posts be re-built, eventually with full armouries and regiments, as it had been before. She wanted to trade with Erebor again, but she would not risk her people's safety recklessly, especially not with Orc stragglers still roaming the countryside, and whatever desperate souls managed to escape Mordor's borders. Dáin had told him most had spent their lives enslaved, and by the time they escaped, were usually hungry and frightened enough to attack trading parties. 

He'll have to see who Dáin and Bard can spare for the time being. If Thranduil is willing to let some of his own venture out, they'd do as well. Elves were better at long-range defences, which would be necessary until the towers could be rebuilt, and siege weapons assembled. The guilds are still finding their feet, after all, and they have other priorities. 

_How did they all do this?_ he wonders, for the thousandth time. 

The Messenger is still reading aloud, with the elder of the Ravens perched on her shoulder, occasionally correcting her in the bird language. “Her Majesty also requests that her traders be allowed to hire on guards, who will be housed accordingly. She understands that you will not feel comfortable housing mercenaries in the barracks with your army, and that Erebor is likely stretched to her limits with the housing, so she requests that they, and the traders, be housed in the city of your trade partners, the Men of Dale. She writes that she expects you to head those negotiations, and send back the reply as soon as possible.”

“Send the message to the Council,” Fíli directs, trying to keep it all straight in his head. “Be sure it falls into no hands but someone who sits on the Council, am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Messenger says, bowing. “And should I have copies sent to His Highness?” 

Fíli nods. “Yes, he'll want to look them over as well.” If anything, maybe it'll put Ori in a better mood, or at least give him something to think about other than being irritated with everyone. “Thank you. Are there any other messages?” 

“Oh, yes,” she says, shuffling through her papers. “King Thranduil writes that he received the shipment of arrowheads that were sent with his son, and the payment for the seedlings.” She narrows her eyes, and then holds the paper up to the raven, who studies it as well before cawing something at her. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty, I've misplaced my spectacles, and some of this writing is a bit hard to make out. His Majesty King Thranduil writes that the request for saplings will have to wait until the summer has passed, but he advises that the areas that will be planted be made ready now, in case of an early freeze.” She makes a face. “There's a rather long bit here talking about why things have to be done that way. Should I read that aloud as well?” 

Honestly, he'd rather re-learn his family tree, complete with Balin breathing down his neck. “I'm sure whoever King Thranduil sends will be delighted to explain it to us all in person.” Ori will love it, unfortunately, and that's all Fíli will hear about in bed for weeks. At least he'll fall asleep easily. 

She nods, and shuffles through to the last paper. “And His Majesty, King Bard, would like to formerly request a meeting with you, Your Majesty, regarding the rebuilding of the dam. He writes he has concerns about the run-off from the quarry that's been slated for use.” 

That sounds important. He's rather sure that work is set to start within a fortnight, after the last of the summer floods, and if they need to designate a new quarry, they need to do it quickly. “Send that one to His Highness, he'll arrange it.” It would be better if Ori did it. He's better at speaking to Bard and the Men than Fíli is, and the workers are more willing to give in when Ori asks. 

He gets his chance to ask when he joins everyone in the council room, and finds Ori amongst them, up and dressed, in rich browns and soft purples, though the sapphire pendant Fíli had gifted him with at the wedding is dangling around his neck. He's not wearing his bearing chain, though Fíli supposes only an idiot couldn't tell at this point. 

He's walking the perimeter of the room, his hands on his belly, so Fíli joins him instead of sitting, his hand finding its spot on the small of Ori's back. “Everything all right?”

“Óin already saw to me this morning,” he says, still settling against Fíli. “This is normal.” He winces and adds, “Just sort of awful. The baby is getting bigger, is all, and more awake, and I can feel him so much more now.”

“You're not in pain, are you?” Not that there's anything Fíli could do if he is in fact in pain, but he'd rather know than have Ori hide things from him. If they're going to try at being married, they're going to have to make a proper go of it. 

Ori leans on him more as they walk the room, and shakes his head. “It's just...it's uncomfortable. I can't describe it. It's just easier if I walk.” They're still waiting for Glóin and and his wife, so Fíli thinks they can get away with walking the room a little longer. He enjoys the chance to move around himself after so long sitting on the formal throne. “Do you mind if I go down to Dale to meet with Bard? He only has so many hours in the day free right now, and it's easier on him if I work around his schedule.” 

“Can you manage a cart?” He wants to say no, but Ori is only asking out of politeness, and besides, he made it out of a goblin fortress and through a battle. “I want Tauriel and Bifur with you when you go, and however many they think is best. And you need to be armed.” 

“Can I borrow your second set of knives? The smaller ones? They fit better in my hand, and I can usually hit the target with them.” Ori is more like Nori when it comes to strength, usually. Fíli has seen him heft things as heavy as one of Dwalin's hammers when he's frightened, but on the day-to-day basis, he favours smaller, long range weapons. 

“You can have them,” Fíli offers, “at least until a set can be commissioned for you.” 

Ori glances up at him. “Didn't...didn't Thorin make that set for you?” 

Oh. Fíli had forgotten that. Most of their things had been returned to them from Thranduil's keep after the battle, and Thranduil had been paid his due, but Fíli had still been too numb to process much. He'd set most of it aside and not thought of any of it at all, only glad to have the armour his mother had made him back, and the hair clip that had once been Thorin's. The second set of knives though, smaller and finer than his mother's usual work, had been made by Thorin for a long-ago birthday, after things had gotten better in Ered Luin. 

He feels a sudden rush of attachment to them, but it's foolish. “He'd want you to have them,” Fíli says, sure it's true. He might be exasperated with Fíli for doing things the wrong way around with Ori, and he might not even like the kind of king Fíli is shaping up to be, but this part at least he knows. Thorin would be happy to know the line was continuing, and he'd be pleased at Fíli's choice. Ori is smart, and loyal, and strong. “I want you to have them.” 

“Thank you,” Ori says, his eyes on the ground. 

Glóin and Gilah finally enter the room, and the great doors are shut and barred to keep out unwanted interruptions. Fíli thinks he should take his spot at the head of the table, but Ori has turned to him now, and Fíli doesn't think anyone will mind if he pays attention to Ori for just a minute longer. 

He's surprised when Ori cups Fíli's face, bringing him down, so Ori can kiss him. Fíli doesn't draw away, not sure what to think of it; Ori almost never initiates, and Fíli can't ever remember him doing it in front of people. It's a dry, close-mouthed kiss, and oddly sweet for the pair of them. Since Ori started it, Fíli doesn't think he's wrong to keep Ori close after the kiss breaks and press their temples together before urging Ori into another kiss, a softer one that goes on long enough Fíli feels a twinge in the back of his neck. 

The openness in Ori's face when Fíli finally breaks the kiss causes something in his chest to feel odd. It's not the first time, and he certainly doesn't dislike it, but he's starting to wonder about what it means. And what it means that he dislikes it when Ori draws away from him to join the others at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which some people start to get their heads together.  
> (Yes, Fíli has been singing the same song to his children since the beginning) 
> 
> (...I wish I could sing)


	9. Chapter 9

“You shouldn't be down here,” Gimli says, for the third time. “If Fíli finds out I let you come down here, me and Tauriel are going to catch it.”

Tauriel has a hand on one of the short, curved swords she carries on her hip. Her long red hair is braided back more intricately now, in a style more like the Dwarrows she works with during the scouting missions, so it's out of her face entirely, and safer from the dust and snags. “His Majesty cannot protest when we're both with him,” she counters. 

Gimli snorts.

“He doesn't mind, as long as I have a guard,” Ori says, placing another broken toy aside. “And as long as I stay in the cleared areas.” He picks up a puppet, the strings delicate, but still holding together. “Do you think this was Dori's?” 

“I don't bloody know,” Gimli grumbles, looking around as though he expects an ambush. 

It's been a month since the wedding, and the tension in Erebor hasn't eased much. More of their people arrived from Ered Luin, people who knew Fíli, knew Thorin, but their implicit support had only seemed to make the ones with a grudge even more stubborn. Glóin had been the first one to be approached about his feelings towards the marriage, by a Northern accountant, and though the Dwarf hadn't said enough Glóin could without doubt say he had ill intentions, he was sure they had been looking for allies for their cause amongst the Company. Óin too had a visitor, this time from the representatives of the Healer's Guild from the North, but their questions had been more cautious. No one had come to Bifur, Bombur, or Bofur. If Ori had to guess, they considered the 'Ur clan too beneath them to bother. 

Balin had the honour of being invited to a meeting with Lord Albin himself though. He'd been very obsequious, Balin had said, very willing to try and appease Balin's pride over his place in Durin's Line, his relationship to Thorin, and now to Fíli, his role as adviser, his status as a hero. Then had begun the attempt to create a bond between them by Albin attempting to convince Balin that he was only concerned for the king, for his youth and impulsiveness. 

For the continued strength of Durin's Line. 

Ori's hand squeezes around a tin soldier too tight, and he feels it start to bend in his grip. He lets go before the old thing cracks. If he comes back bleeding, Fíli will make that horrid face he makes whenever he gets too concerned for his own good. 

It's not just the whispers. It's the fear of which ones are whispering in the ears of assassins. “Has Fíli told you two anything about any more threats?” 

“Nothing substantial that you need to worry about,” Tauriel answers, lifting one of the heavy old curtains away from the window and looking out into the old courtyard the house shares with a few others. “The same group as before. I've heard some whispers myself, but the majority of them seem to be about myself.” She smiles at Ori over her shoulder. “It appears most of the old nobles believe neither of the heirs chose well.” Gimli is by the door, far enough away he likely doesn't hear when she adds, “I suppose they're thankful our union will produce no half-breed children for them to see.” 

“Do you not...want children?” It's an awkward question to ask, perhaps a little too intimate for their still new friendship, but it's out before he thinks better of it. 

She steps back, and the curtain falls. “Once I joined the guard, I was supposed to set aside all thoughts of family, of children. My first loyalty was to be to the king and the prince.” She lowers herself to the floor, crossing her legs beneath her. “Now that the option is altogether removed though...and seeing how excited Kíli is for your baby...” 

Now he understands, he thinks. He's never read any story about there being a child between their two people's. “Many Dwarves cannot have children,” Ori says, attempting to comfort her. “There's no guarantee if he'd ended up with one of ours he would have had any children either.” 

If he's been helpful at all, he doesn't know; Tauriel picks up a stray wooden block off the floor and studies it. The paint hasn't faded much in the dark, cool nursery over the years. She polishes it against her shirt, so the design shows a bit more. “A star,” she says aloud. 

“Star,” Ori repeats, taking it from her. “ _Gimli_. It's how we learn Khuzdul and Common when we're little.” 

“Your name means 'star'?” she asks Gimli. 

Gimli bristles behind his beard. “It's a fine enough name, I'll thank you.”

“It's a very fine name,” Tauriel agrees. “What about the new one, Ori? Have you thought about what they'll be called?” 

“As I said, Gimli is a _very_ fine name,” Gimli crows, as Ori gives in to his aching back and lies down on the floor on his side. It's clean enough he's not too bothered, and besides, now his back feels better. “And Fíli would agree if you said you liked it.” 

“Except I'm not naming my child after you, you arrogant sod.” He doesn't mean it any way, Ori doesn't think. If anything, they'll be expected to name the baby for Fíli's line, them being the first-born and Fíli's heir. Ori doesn't mind, he supposes. “I don't know, really. We haven't talked much about it.” He touches his belly, making circles. The baby really might be a night owl, like him, because it's the middle of the day, and he's still.

He remembers his dream, and he's embarrassed he even confessed it to Kíli. It had seemed important then, but now it feels silly. He's not like his mother, no matter how much she hoped one of them would inherit her talent. 

They're running out of time to make a decision, in any case. 

“Do you think Fíli would want to name him for Thorin?” Gimli asks. 

“That's a heavy name to call them by,” Tauriel says. “Not to speak against Fíli, but he seems to hold his uncle's memory in the highest esteem. To call the first child by that name...they might come to resent the burden, later on.” 

Ori nods along, sitting back up with a little more effort than he wants to admit to. “There will be enough children running around with the name, anyway. And Fíli's cousin, Dáin's son, is called Thorin already.”

Tauriel makes an odd sound. “Yes, we met. At the wedding. He's...very much like his father.” Ori remembers seeing Tauriel being all but pulled into the dancing by Thorin Stonehelm when no one else would approach, Kíli dancing with his mother at the time. He was as tall and broad as Dwalin, so he hadn't looked too ridiculous with her tall, slender form. “Very bold, very amusing.”

“Can't believe you danced with Dáin too,” Gimli adds. 

“My feet can believe it,” Tauriel replies. “I have to conclude that Thorin Stonehelm inherited his grace from his mother, not Lord Dáin.” She finds a spinning top on the ground, its string lost somewhere in the room. She spins it anyway, using the handle, and it manages a few good turns before it wobbles and falls over. “Could you name them for your brother? The one who fell?” 

“No,” Ori says, shaking his head. “Maybe if we have other children, then yes. But not the first-born.” When she frowns, questioning, he explains. “My family is...less than revered, amongst some of the people here. With things the way they are, it just wouldn't be a good idea.”

The big clock, restored fully at last, clangs loudly, marking the hour for the whole neighbourhood to hear. It chimes seven times though, and Tauriel is already helping Ori to his feet as all three realize they've stayed far later than they intended. 

“Oh, he's going to go spare,” Gimli swears, hurrying them out the door. “We're not coming down here again, do you hear me? This isn't safe for you anymore.” 

“My bedroom wasn't safe,” Ori says. 

“Don't remind me.” 

He doesn't have to remind him, in the end. Gimli gets his own experience to call back on, and he never fails to. 

This time, there are four, and they very nearly succeed before Ori even knows what's happening. One moment he's walking beside Gimli, the next Tauriel is shoving him into the wall, his back connecting so hard he feels it in his teeth, while she readies her bow and looses an arrow, moving so quickly it all seems as one fluid moment. Gimli catches on quickly, and the next thing Ori knows, there's a large Dwarf pressed against Gimli's axe, attempting to overtake him. 

Gimli braces himself hard though, and pushes them off hard, following after with the blade and burying it in the Dwarf's shoulder. “Come at me, then!” he bellows, his voice echoing in the empty ruins. 

Ori sees the next one coming, but he doesn't have to warn Tauriel; he barely sees the enemy before they have an arrow jutting out of their throat. 

The last is caught trying to escape by Gimli, a Dwarf shorter than Ori, with barely any beard, their long braids frayed and dirty around their face. “And where do you think you're going?” Gimli asks, giving them a shake. “We were all just getting to know one another.”

“Are you unharmed?” Tauriel asks Ori, one of her blades in hand now. 

Ori still hasn't quite caught his breath, but he nods. His breath won't seem to come after another moment though, and he claws at the wall, trying to find purchase, trying to force himself to calm down, but his heart is in his ears, and suddenly -

He's sitting on the ground, and Tauriel is shouting for help, and he cannot feel the stone or breathe or think -

He's aware of being moved, but it's like it's happening in a dream. He knows the voices around him, knows he should be more concerned than he is, but everything feels so heavy, he stays where he is. 

When he does finally wake, his head is aching, and he's cold. He lies there for awhile, until he feels like sitting up and looking around. He's in the bedroom, lying on the bed, on top of the covers, the fur down by his feet, still mostly clothed. His shoes are gone, at least. 

“Fíli?” He thinks it's Fíli, sitting on the sofa, but he's not sure. The fire has been banked, and the lamps are all turned down. When the figure turns, he sees it's not; it's Kíli. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Kíli says, standing and coming over. He pours a cup of water from the silver pitcher by the bed, holding it out to Ori. “He's still trying to work out who he's going to execute first. Everyone thought it might be a better idea for him to stay away until he can calm down.” He pours himself a cup of water, and sits on the bed. “It might be awhile.” 

The water helps Ori's headache a little. “He's angry?” 

“You remember that time I broke his sword?” Kíli asks. “I didn't actually know he could get angrier.” He smiles, and touches Ori's stomach, his palm resting just above Ori's navel. “You are causing a lot of trouble, little one. Think you and me are going to get on just fine.” 

He looks like himself, right then, the way he's smiling, and Ori can't help but reach out for him, their heads knocking together as Ori clutches at Kíli's arm. Ori is happy, for just a moment, but his throat tightens up suddenly, and he starts to cry into Kíli's shoulder. 

“It's alright,” Kíli says, wrapping an arm around shoulders and keeping them close. “I won't let it happen.” 

“It's not fair,” Ori says, his voice breaking. “Things were supposed to be _better_ here. Easier. Why isn't it?” 

“Because you slept with Fíli,” Kíli replies smartly. “Anyone could have told you what a stupid idea that was. Now see, if you had just thrown yourself into my arms in a fit of grief -” He breaks for only a moment when Ori smacks him, and then keeps on, “No, see, everything would be quite nice then, wouldn't it? I am far better looking than Fíli, and you and Tauriel could share me! Oh, or you and Tauriel -”

“I don't think she would like to hear you say something like that.” Ori cannot decide if he's laughing or crying, but either way, he can't stop. 

“Hm. Well, since I love her more than every star in the sky, I suppose you're stuck with my brother then. Pity. He doesn't know what to do with you.” 

The door to the bedroom opens suddenly, startling them both, and Fíli walks in, already shrugging off his heavy coat and throwing it on the sofa. He grips the sofa, looking at the fire, not Ori. “Kíli,” he says, “get out.” 

Kíli raises his eyebrows at Ori, quietly wishing him luck, and does as Fíli says, shutting the door behind him. 

When it's just the two of them though, Fíli doesn't say anything, not for awhile. The room is cold, so Ori starts to get off the bed, intending to stir the fire, but Fíli says, “Don't,” sharply, followed, in a gentler tone, “Óin says you should rest.”

“It's cold,” Ori argues. “I can make up the fire.” 

“I'll do it,” Fíli says, and something about the way he says it keeps Ori quiet until the fire is flickering back to life, casting long shadows in the room, and across Fíli's face. The fire does something funny to Fíli's hair, casting darkness in the bright colour that always makes him and Kíli look more alike. He stands there, not looking at Ori, and still without turning, says, “What were you thinking?” 

“I went with Gimli and Tauriel, I never thought -”

“Obviously!” The volume of it shocks Ori. “Obviously you weren't thinking at all! What is wrong with you, why would you think you could just go walking around the city? Someone tried to kill you in our bedroom, Ori! And now I've got three more bodies and another rat in a cell to handle, because you've apparently lost whatever sense you ever had!”

“Don't shout at me!” Ori shouts back. “I was living there before, for pity's sake, and I was fine!”

“That was before you had our child in you, and my sigil around your neck!” He doesn't come away from the fire, and he still won't _look_ at Ori. “It must be so easy for assassins to plan when you're practically handing yourself to them!”

“What do you want me to do, lock myself in these rooms?” Regardless of what Óin or Fíli said, Ori stands up, using the poster of the bed for balance. 

“You likely don't want to be giving me ideas right now,” Fíli says. 

That he even thinks he has the _right_ has Ori seeing red, and his hand around the pendant of his necklace before he can even think straight. He yanks it off over his head, and throws it towards Fíli, hitting the hearth and scattering glowing ashes. “Go to the stones!”

There's nothing else to do after that but leave the room, and he takes great pleasure in slamming the door to both the bedroom and their sitting room. In the hallway, two guards are standing at attention, and not doing a very good job at not looking interested. 

Ori isn't angry enough to not be embarrassed, and his face is bright red as he stalks off towards his terrace. He slams that door too, just because he can. 

It's raining. And not a bearable, summer rain, but a downpour coming down so hard the drops are bouncing off the stone and making a sort of mist that's already soaking Ori's ankles. He'd forgotten shoes. 

Just the absolute _nerve_ of him. As though Ori doesn't realise what could have happened, how close he came yet again. And for what? Why were they so determined? Fíli and Ori were married now, there was no taking it back. 

The baby is awake inside of him, turning around and about, and Ori starts to cry again.

Fíli was just such an absolute _git_. How had he forgotten that? How had he forgotten that Fíli could get under his skin like no one else, and he was always so arrogant about it too, the sod. Ori couldn't stand him, and now what? Now he's married to him. He's stuck with Fíli. 

He doesn't try to stop crying this time, doesn't know if he could. 

He wants Dori, wants his mother. He wants to not be here anymore. It's all just too much. 

The rain keeps on, and even against the wall, he's soaked by the time he's calm again. He's freezing in the hallway, and dripping everywhere, making his stomach clench guiltily. It's different making a mess when he's not the one cleaning it up. He tries to gather his wet clothes around himself, but there's a trail of water behind him by the time he gets back to the room. 

The big doors to their rooms are still firmly shut, but there are different guards on shift. One of them clears their throat, and Ori turns, unsure of if they're trying to get his attention. The guard has their beard dyed blue, as are the tips of their braids, which Ori thinks means their line is from the East, but he's not sure. 

They're looking at Ori. “Yes?” he hazards, too tired to think of etiquette. 

“Your Highness,” they says, nodding their head. “His Majesty left your rooms some hours ago, and has not yet returned.” 

“I'm sure he will soon, then,” Ori replies, and goes inside.

But by the time he's dried himself off, laid his clothes out to dry, changed into something warm and clean, and called for something to eat, he's still alone. He lingers over his food, not sure if he's waiting for Fíli or not, or whether or not he really wants to see him. He's not sure he won't get furious all over again if he sees him. 

It doesn't matter, in the end. He crawls into bed alone, and lies there for awhile, maybe waiting, maybe not, until he falls asleep. He wakes up alone as well. He's still angry, but he worries over where Fíli slept or whether he slept at all. 

He's having breakfast when Dís sweeps into the sitting room with no warning, the guard meant to announce her standing helplessly at the door. “Come quickly, now,” she says, “It's very important. Now.” She's already leaving the room, and Ori has no choice but to follow her out. 

She's keeping a quick pace, and it's not exactly easy to keep up. Ori ends up falling behind quite a ways, but catches up when she waits for him at the doors to the throne room. She slows herself enough they mostly walk side by side all the way to the throne, where Fíli is waiting. He takes Ori by the hand, and guides him to his chair, so Ori sits. 

Kíli is here, as is Tauriel, Dwalin, Balin, Bifur, and Glóin. Everyone seems grim, and Ori wonders what exactly he's here for, what any of them are here for. 

He gets his answer when four guards come in. Between the first two is the surviving assassin from the day before, looking even worse than they did then. And between the other two is Socorro. 

Ori has not seen her since the day she was dragged away. She's much thinner now, and her hair has been choppily cut to her shoulders. When she looks up, she doesn't sneer, as Ori almost expects her to, his stomach twisting. Her face is haggard, the circles under her eyes so dark she looks almost skeletal. She doesn't even seem to see them, not really. 

She's missing two fingers on her right hand, Ori notices. So Fíli had made good on that threat. 

“Dwarrows of the Court of Erebor,” Dís says, her voice filling the room, “Two attempts now have made against the Crown. Before you, you see the two who have survived making those attempts. Socorro, daughter of Voski, of the Firebeard clan, and Bevan, son of Envar, of the Blacklocks.” She looks to Fíli, as does Ori, and Fíli nods. “Are there are any members of the clans willing to stand with them, today?”

Ori's sat by Lord Balin at trials such as this, though never in so grand a room. This is how the clans will negotiate their apologies to Fíli, and the Longbeards. It might also be how the two of them will manage to see tomorrow. 

He looks at Socorro, and doesn't know how to feel. 

A Dwarf rises, a judge from Ered Luin, his thick black braids tied up in three elaborate knots on his head. He comes down the stairs and stands beside the one called Bevan, looking down at the Dwarf, face unreadable. “I'll represent the Blacklocks, Your Majesty.” 

There's murmuring amongst the observers, but still, no one stands for Socorro for a long time. She doesn't seem to care. Finally though, a Firebeard so old their beard is all but white stands, and slowly makes their way down the steps with the help of a cane. “I will represent the Firebeards, if it pleases you.” 

“Does it please you, Ori?” Fíli asks. Ori nods, because he doesn't know what else to do. “Fine. You have a day to build your arguments.” 

The two assassins are taken out, followed by their new representatives, and the court begins to talk, so loud it could be shouting. 

Dís sighs, her shoulders rising and falling, and comes to stand by Fíli. “You should have them executed.” 

“I don't want the hands,” Fíli replies, “I want the head. If they'll give us that...” 

“We need to keep good relations with their clans,” Ori adds, still shaken inside. “It's important they have representation. That things are done properly.” The words come out despite him not remembering thinking them. They feel like the right thing to say though, the proper, rational thing. “I didn't get a chance to finish my breakfast.” Fíli doesn't say anything, and Ori is irritated with him all over again, so he stands up and says, “I'm going to go eat.” 

Tauriel follows after him, as does Kíli. He's not sure where he intends to go when he walks out, just that he doesn't want to be in the room anymore. And he's hungry. 

He goes back to the rooms, where his breakfast is still waiting, though his tea has gone cold. Ori sits at the table, and he's hungry, but he picks at the food. Kíli doesn't say much for a time, and neither does Tauriel. Ori finds himself reaching up to play with his pendant a few times, only to find it not there every time. He hadn't noticed it lying on the hearth this morning. 

“You shouldn't have been down there,” Kíli says, when the tea has run out. “Ori, you can't.” 

“I'm not weak.”

“No one is saying that,” Tauriel says. “But Ori...I will not take you down there again. Not until we have found the vipers in this mountain, and burned out their nest. It is not safe, not for you, and not for the child.” 

Kíli starts to say something, then stops, and to Ori's fear, he sees the confusion steal over Kíli's face, sees the way he's gripping the table knife in his hand, the way it changes from a little utensil to a weapon. 

“Tauriel,” Ori whispers, afraid. 

He's afraid of his friend, and he feels disgusted with himself, but the fear won't abate, because Kíli is so obviously lost, and he's still holding the knife. Then, like a wave, clarity washes over his face, and he lets it go, the knife clattering on the table. “I'm alright,” he says aloud. “I'm alright.” 

“Are you?” Tauriel asks, her long fingers on his face.

“Yes,” Kíli answers. "I'm here.”

They leave him, soon after, and Ori is left alone in the rooms. Eventually, he takes a nap, and when he awakes, Fíli is sitting on the sofa, with papers in hand.

Ori watches him, as he scribbles on the papers, marking out bits and adding some. 

“Don't execute her,” he says, and Fíli put the papers down.

“It's your choice,” Fíli replies, rising up from the sofa and coming to sit beside Ori. “She tried to kill you, Ori. I can't...I'm trying to find some mercy, and Ori, I can't, because she was going to take you from me -”

“I want her dead,” Ori says. “But that's not the smart thing to do, is it?” 

Fíli shakes his head. “No.” His mouth thins. “Balin says the boy can be conscripted. He's very young. I doubt he feels anything towards you or me or the baby. He just wanted the money. He's from the Iron Hills, apparently. His mother died in the Battle. Sire is unknown.” Fíli sighs, twisting his ring, the one that had been Thorin's, then covers his face with his hands, sighing. “Socorro though...I don't know what to do with her. She should be executed.”

Ori lies back down on the bed, resting his hand on his belly. There's no movement for now. “Have you spoken to your mother?” 

“She says we should make an example of both of them, but I don't think that's going to make us any friends. And we need friends. Showing strength is important, but when I look back on things, on things my mother did, and the way Thorin was at the end, I think it's important to know when to make concessions. What do you think?”

“So now you think I have sense?” It's not as sharp as it would have been last night, but the insult still stings and he hasn't forgiven Fíli. 

“I don't want to fight with you again, Ori.” He stands up, but doesn't go anywhere. “Do you know what it felt like, seeing them carry you in, after we'd gotten word someone had tried to kill you again? Do you have any idea?” 

“You still had no right to shout at me.” 

“You shouldn't have been down there!” 

Ori rolls over on the bed, turning his back to Fíli. He can think of a lot of things to say to Fíli right now, but none of it is even remotely rational, so he keeps quiet. He feels ridiculous, but he can't get his head together, and Fíli isn't helping. “Leave me alone,” he says. 

“Gladly.” 

He doesn't slam the door like Ori did last night, but Ori can hear his heavy walk in the other room, knows he's pacing, probably coming up with more arguments, more ways to shout at Ori, to blame him. 

When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the stone against his back, can hear Tauriel's bow, and he buries his face in the pillow, trying to force the images out. They won't go though, and his imagination starts to reshape the events; Tauriel is a moment slower, Gimli is overpowered, and it's Ori who's is bleeding out on the ground. Socorro had said there were threats to cut the baby out. Would they have done that? 

Being alone in the room is suddenly too much, and he forces himself up and out of the bed, and into the other room, where Fíli still is. He's sitting on the shabby sofa , his head tipped a bit, and Ori realises he's fallen asleep. 

His anger dissipates, for now at least. “Fíli” he says, shaking him. “Fíli, come lie down.” The king doesn't argue. 

In their bed, Fíli is almost asleep as soon as he's lying down, but not quite. Ori sits cross-legged beside him, and something about the exhaustion in Fíli's face has him reaching out and stroking Fíli's hair. Fíli lets him, his eyes closing, and Ori sits with him until he falls asleep. 

It's the middle of the day though, and one of them needs to be awake, so Ori reluctantly gets up, making sure to leave quietly. 

The unexpected confrontation had upended his timetable, so he's not exactly sure what he's supposed to be doing today. There's a chance quite a few of the people he was supposed to see today are more concerned with what happened than whatever they wanted from him, and the ones who did have something important had probably moved on to other tasks. 

He wanders out, and makes his way out of the family apartments, the guards following at a less-than-polite distance. They're on edge, as though Ori can blame them. Two attempts now, and one was in the palace. They halt when Dís approaches though, standing back in order to give privacy, and Ori will never get past the fact he's _important_ now, and that the guards would consider it wrong to listen to one of his conversations. 

Dís is wearing a fresh dress, a dark red one with black and silver embroidery, and jewellery now. A set of four gold necklaces, and gold rings with onyx set in them on each hand. “Ori,” she says, “there you are. I was on my way to find you.” 

That's unusual enough Ori doesn't think he manages to hide his surprise. “Do you need me for something?” 

“Yes,” she says, coming closer. “I need to speak with you.” She looks at the guards. “Privately.” 

However, one particularly brave one says, “Apologies, Your Highness, but we have strict orders from His Majesty and from Lord Dwalin that we are not to leave His Highness' side.”

She doesn't look very moved, but she doesn't try and send them away. Instead she says, “In my office, then.” 

Ori hadn't been aware that Dís had found offices in the palace, but she's managed to find a usable room close to Balin's. It smells of damp and disuse still, but she's had the place cleaned out of everything except the useful pieces of furniture. Ori's guards are content to wait outside, which is a good thing, because Ori isn't entirely sure they'd all fit in the little room. 

She serves him a cup of honey water from the pitcher on her desk, and a glass of wine for herself. His throat is a bit scratchy, so he's grateful for it, even if he's leery of just what she wants of him.

He's never been alone with Dís before, not really, and it's awkward, at least for him. He doubts anything makes the princess feel awkward. 

“How are you, after yesterday?” She sits down in the other armchair instead of behind the desk, but Ori thinks he might have preferred the barrier between them. “No problems?” Her eyes go to his belly, and he covers it with his hands out of habit. 

“Just a little bruised.” He can't see it, but he can feel them on his shoulders. “And he's fine too.” 

“The She-Elf reacted quickly. As did Gimli, but I expected that of him. He'll be a fine warrior before he's a hundred.” Ori isn't so sure about that. Gimli is usually good-natured, but he has a quick temper and he tends to do stupid things when said temper gets the better of him. “The next caravan has sent word. They became delayed in the mountain pass. The flooding was too high for them to cross safely. Your mother is with them, isn't she?” 

Ori nods. “She sent word she was leaving with them.” He hasn't heard from her since, but he didn't expect to. Sending post back and forth between a moving caravan and the mountain isn't an easy task, and whatever ravens they have are going to be kept for important matters. “She'll be here soon, then?” 

“Yes.” Dís smiles in a very polite way, then says, “I've had a set of apartments cleared for her, until she knows where she'd like to stay. They're a large set. They belonged to an aunt of mine who had five children.” It's kind, but oddly, it doesn't sound like a kindness, and he understands why in a moment. “Perhaps you would like to stay with her for a time, so the pair of you can have some time together as a family.”

Oh. Oh, now Ori sees what she's after. “I don't think it's a good idea to spend resources on another bed, and furnishings.” His and Fíli's bedroom is hardly extravagant, but it's more than what many in Erebor and Dale have, even after almost a year. 

She sets her glass down. “My son is the king of Erebor. He cannot be barred from his own bed.” 

“I didn't bar him from anywhere,” Ori snaps defensively. 

“He could hardly stay awake this morning.” 

“That's not my fault!” Shouting is not good for his throat, and it scratches even worse now. “If he didn't sleep, that's his own doing.” He rises to leave, annoyed, but apparently the princess isn't finished with him yet. 

“Assassins are in my son's bedroom because of you. Do not make things even more difficult.” 

That finds a target in Ori's chest, burrows in and _hurts_. Because Dís used to be kind to him, in her own way, in Ered Luin. 

“Thank you for thinking of my mother,” he says, intending to leave now before anything else is said. He can only take so much in one day, and it's not even time for midday yet. 

“He's my son,” she says, more softly. “And he cares about you. Not just for the child. And you put yourself in that situation, and he...I have never seen Fíli that way. He was so afraid. He was afraid he was going to lose you.” When he dares look at her, she's sitting in the chair still, her chin resting on her knuckles and seeming to be utterly lost. She stays like that for only another moment though, and then she straightens herself, smoothing down her dress. “Your mother is unwell, if I remember correctly. I will make sure there is a healer to see to her when she arrives.”

Again, Ori thanks her, and slips out the door before she can say anymore.

That evening, Fíli comes into their rooms with something in hand; Ori's pendant. “I fixed the chain.” He puts it down on the table. “How is your back?” 

“I think it's bruised.” 

Fíli checks, his hands gentle on the sensitive area. “You are. It's not too bad though.” His hands slip down to Ori's upper arms, just barely touching him. “Are we still fighting?” 

“No,” Ori says, turning and guiding Fíli into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next things I will be posting is the second chapter to _Drain the Whole Sea_ , a commissioned piece for Dwalin/Nori, and another Bagginshield fic.


	10. Chapter 10

Glori is expecting something of a more personal greeting when at last, the caravan reaches the shore, but she's not terribly disappointed when it's only Dwalin amongst the Dwarrows who greet their boats. Ori is rather far along now, by her maths, and when she thinks about it, she decides she'd rather he of not ventured all the way down, not when she will see him soon any way, safe in the mountain where a bearing Dwarf should be. 

“ _Mother,_ ” Dwalin greets her respectfully in their own tongue, helping her from the boat. “Welcome home, at long last.”

“Law-son,” she says in kind, bringing their temples together when he bends down for her. “How have you fared?”

“Ribs took a beating, but nothing worse than anything I've suffered before.” 

She looks him over sceptically, not believing a word. “Have you somehow managed to lose more of that ear?” she scolds, sure there's much less of it.

He grimaces, and touches the ear. “Nothing worse, as I said.” 

She clucks her tongue. “I find it very troublesome my second son married a Dwarf with a tongue as twisted as his.” Perhaps mentioning Nori was a mistake, because Dwalin's grimace turns to something closer to real pain. She sighs, and pats his arm. “Peace. You know how he is. The wind always blows him back home, eventually.” 

She had not been surprised when Ori wrote to her of Nori leaving. He had always been much closer to Dori than anyone else in their family. Dori had all but raised him after all, when she was taken so ill, and her second son had never been good at handling grief. To lose Dori must have devastated him, her poor, soft-hearted Nori. 

Not surprised, but not pleased either. He had no business leaving Ori by himself, and he knew it. Likely that guilt would keep him away longer too. 

“He's here,” Dwalin says though, and that's a true surprise. 

“Is he?” Her old heart races a bit too fast, and she's forced to lean on Dwalin, her law-son taking her weight without hesitation. 

“Can you walk, Mother?” he asks, gently, and she knows a closed door when she sees one, so she waits on the subject of Nori. If he is here, she will see him soon enough, and have her answers. 

She tries to stand straight again, but her body refuses. “It seems not. Pity, I've been sitting on that boat so long already.”

Dwalin signals some of the Dwarrows nearby, and they kneel in front of her with a proper litter for her to lie on. “I thought it better to be prepared.” 

“Sweet boy,” she manages, and sits. She's not fond of litters, not really, but the journey was harder on her than she likes. She wasn't all that strong when she was young, and the ash lung, plus two more children borne, has robbed her of most of it. “Does Ori know then? That you can call me that openly?”

He shakes his head, and she rolls her eyes. “After all this time, how do we even start that tale?” 

“The part where you're both fools,” she suggests. The conversation has taken too dark a turn for such a happy reunion, and she's too tired for it, so she changes the direction. “I do believe I owe your brother two silvers, now that I think on it. His money was on a bolting marriage. So was Bombur's, if I remember right.”

Dwalin chuckles. “That was Bifur's money. Dori would have never forgiven him if he found out.” He does not hesitate to say it. He lets the truth lie where it does, though he does not meet her eyes.

She thinks on the box she has tucked away amongst her things, the box she found in Dori's things. She'd been angry when she found it, the letters inside tied with ribbons, and telling her all her eldest son had kept secret from her over the years. Now though, now she cannot feel anger towards her Dori. Perhaps she'll never be able to again. “Does he mourn?”

“Yes,” Dwalin says simply. 

And it grates at her to ask, but the ribbons had all been purple and there had been flowers pressed in as well, and a dozen little trinkets besides. “Does he mourn as a widower?” 

“He knows he doesn't have that right.” He still does not look at her, but he's got that flush he gets around what's left of his bloody ears. “The pair of them were always wiser, and far less selfish than Nori and me. He might have had his secrets, Dori, but he never would have gone that far.” 

Another dark turn this reunion has taken. Aye, but she has too many thoughts springing about, like a rabbit in summer.

“He's a smarter Dwarf than I gave him credit for, to know not to quarrel with Dori. And Dori always did believe Ori was far too clever to be so ridiculous,” she agrees, forcing herself to the happier news. “I always bet on my sons, but I wasn't nearly as convinced as Dori was that there wouldn't be trouble between him and Fíli before everything was done properly.” 

Dwalin laughs openly, keeping pace with the litter easily, and she laughs too, trying not to cough. “Took them longer than I thought. I was sure it would happen on the quest! Lost quite a bit of coin to Glóin!”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure you're quite the pauper now,” Glori replies. “Suppose I'll have to depend on my youngest to take care of me.” She closes her eyes against the rocking of the litter, too much like the boat. “How is my Ori? Truly?”

“Coming into his own,” Dwalin says, and she smiles to herself. “He and Fíli are proving themselves a good pair, now that they finally have their heads on somewhat straighter when it comes to one another. They're handling the vultures just fine. Ori is finding plenty to keep himself occupied. There's more than enough work to go around, and half the time, he's the only one that can make pick or axe of it.” 

She hums, thinking of her little lad, of the brightness in his dark eyes, even when he was small. “My little lad has never been happier than when he has some paper and ink.” 

She rests in silence the rest of the way, as Dwalin moves ahead to keep everyone together and moving, his voice breaking through her thoughts in a reassuring sort of way. She enjoys having at least one of her sons close, after so long with all of them gone from her. 

Oh, her Dori. And she has cried all she will allow herself to for him, but the idea that he is gone before her, her proud and beautiful son, has left a fissure in her heart that she knows will never repair, not until they're reunited in the Halls. 

With her health though, she muses, that day might not be very far away, at least. Though she does want to meet her grandchild first. 

Shadows fall across her face, and she opens her eyes to see the gates of Erebor at last, after so many years. 

“Oh,” she breathes, her throat tight as the tears begin. 

“Aye,” one of the Dwarves carrying her says, sounding just as awed as she does. “Aye, my Lady, it's truly the most glorious thing my eyes have ever seen.”

They lower her, and Dwalin helps her to her feet, as one of the young Dwarrows that had come on the boat with her hurries forward with her cane. “Do you think you can make the walk?” 

“I will,” she says, determined to walk in her reclaimed home once again, to feel the stone of Erebor again. She is not quite that much of an invalid, not just yet.

Under her feet, the stone is _alive_ , as she has not felt since last she stood here, singing to her, and while she does not feel any less old or ill, she does feel better. It's the first time she's climbed stairs in an age and not ached to the very marrow of her bones. There is an ache, of course, but she finds she can keep climbing with only a little help from Dwalin and her cane. 

Up, up, up into the city built within the mountain, through parts she knows as well as her own hands, and parts she never had cause to see. 

“Is the Silk District lit again?” she asks, though it has been many a year since her face could earn a coin. Still, she would like to see it again, see the lights and the dancers and hear the bells on their feet and in their braids. She herself has not been able to dance the old dances since before before Ori was born, but her bones still remember the steps, remember the heavy beat of the drums and the sweet singing of the strings. 

“As though a dragon could keep the Silk District cold for long,” Dwalin scoffs. “The lanterns have been strung again, and they've two grandmasters here already. They've hired the children to dig through the treasury to find bells and bracelets and all the frippery that lot love.” 

She imagines bells in her Dori's hair. Bronze, for when he was young and his hair as red as fire. Silver as it turned the colour of pearl. Oh, but there would have been a bidding war to ring the mountain down if her Dori had ever been able to be in his full glory. 

“Dwalin,” for she must, and it's an entirely different question this time.“What does Ori know?”

“Nothing Dori hid.” 

Maybe, in this place, she can tell Ori all. In this place, where Dori would have been powerful, not laughed about. In Ered Luin, Dori was little but another fair face doing what had to be done. Here, Dori would have had a seat at the Guild Table, could have been one of the most influential Dwarrows in this, the greatest kingdom of their people. 

They pass servants, many of who, when they see Dwalin, take the time to stop and bow or curtsy to the both of them, before scurrying on with their chore. She doubts they know who she is, only that if she is being escorted by Dwalin in these halls, she must be important. What ridiculous creatures.

Though, she is important, she realises. Her three sons helped take back their home. Her youngest son has married the king of Erebor. 

Her youngest is bearing the next ruler of Erebor. 

“Are we close?” She is afraid to see him, suddenly. Afraid she will not recognise her son after all this time. “Dwalin, has he changed much?”

“Yes,” Dwalin answers honestly. “But I do not think it is a bad change.” 

He steps away from her to approach a private hall being guarded by no less than four soldiers, who all stand at rapt attention. Her eyes might be old, but they're still sharp enough to spot the cup holding the dice being hidden behind one's boot. At least they're clever enough to listen for the boots of a commanding officer while they go about their games. 

“This is Glori, mother of His Royal Highness, Prince Ori, law-mother to His Royal Majesty, King Fíli, and grandmother to the heir of the king,” Dwalin announces, with quite a bit more noble in his voice than Glori's heard in a long time. “Until you are told differently, she has invitation to this part of the palace. Am I understood?”

“Sir, yes sir, General Dwalin!” They answer in perfect unison, banging their left fist over their chests.

Then Dwalin walks past them, ushering her with him, down the long hallway to a large domed room with open arches that lead to other halls, other staircases. These are the royal apartments, she realises.

He leads her down one hall, which looks much the same as the others to her old eyes, to another set of doors that he throws open. Glori has to blink as she finds herself thrust back into the sunshine again, standing on an actual terrace, a pleasure-terrace of all things. “Of all the sights to see in Erebor,” she says, instead of swearing as she dearly wants to. Some warning would have done her good.

“Bifur, and the Builders' Guild's wedding present to Ori,” Dwalin explains, but she hardly hears, because her eyes have adjusted at last. 

When her Ori left her, he was still her baby, wrapped up in all his layers with his faded ribbons knotted tight in his hair. 

And her Ori now, heavy with child, oh, but he is her baby still, in summer clothes with dark blue and violet ribbons plaited in his many braids. 

“Oh, your hair, my sweet,” she praises reaching for him, because it's become so much redder, so much like her own, as she thought it might, and he's allowed it to grow longer at last, wearing proper pretty braids and even beads! She had spent many a day despairing of how they could not spare the money for beads or clasps for him, her youngest.

“Mama,” he calls, and between the pair of them in both their states, they meet in the middle. He's so fat with the baby, it's hard to embrace him properly, but they make do. He smells the same, even, of paper and ink and the lavender oil in his hair. “Mama, you're here! I hoped you were with this caravan, but you did not answer my raven!”

“It must have just missed us. Oh, my sweet, my precious treasure,” she coos, her face hot with tears. “To see you again! To see you so beautiful!” 

And he is, his face round with good, solid, weight, and strong colour as well. His freckles have faded a bit, as she thought they might when he got a bit older, and his beard is coming in thicker, redder, just like his hair. He's holding himself better too, straighter, less of the meekness he left with. 

She had always wondered, in the abstract sense, whether her youngest would be a true beauty as she had been, as his older brothers were, as the sister he had never known had been, or would always remain simply sweet and pleasing to the eye. Now though, there is no wondering. Her youngest has only taken a bit longer in his forging, and soon, she knows, he will be called the true crown jewel of Erebor. 

Fíli likely already thinks so. Likely always has, if the way his eyes always followed her youngest son was anything to go by. 

“You have lost me some coin, my sweet,” she scolds. “Why would you be so silly, when your poor mama had placed four whole silvers on you making sure the dolt married you before the baby happened?” A share of the treasure or not, four silvers was four silvers.

Her youngest turns the same bright shade of red he always has when he's flustered, and she laughs. “Mama! That's not funny!”

She laughs still, but he doesn't. She eyes him, considering his face and the way he's still so red, and glances back at Dwalin. Her law-son is pointedly looking away, and Glori privately wonders just when she will be offered a drink. Only her sweet Ori, she thinks, brushing a braid behind his ear, could continue be so wilfully blind. 

Still, he is her precious youngest, so she gives him a lie. “Of course not, my sweetling. Only joking. Allow your mama her jokes. I am old, and have little to laugh about these days.” 

The red has faded from his cheeks, as he says now, sadly, so old, too old, “Mama...Dori fell.” And he knows she knows, for it was him that wrote her and told her, but oh, how long has he had to wait to truly mourn? How long has her child been alone?

She thinks of those letters and tokens Dori kept hidden from her, and she wonders at how he could have been less alone, if Dori had believed he could have something for himself, if he had married Bifur. Bifur who was here, and who she knows now loved her Dori just as much as they did. Bifur who could have protected Ori as a brother. 

And she thinks on Dwalin, who should have protected him as a brother, were Nori not so stubborn, so fey and wild. 

And she pulls her youngest, her precious baby, her Ori, close to her again, and says, “I know. I know, my sweetling.” And these tears are for Ori, who loved Dori and looked up to him his whole life. “I know.”

“I missed you, Mama.”

“And I you.” 

She holds him close as he cries, and cries for him too. For how alone he's been, and how much of that is the fault of people who loved him, herself included. All their secrets, all their lies. Had she ever really convinced herself it was for his own good? Maybe it had just been easier on all of them, if they never had to be tarnished in his eyes.

He's not a child any more though. And soon, she knows, it will be time to tell him all. 

For now though, for now, she just wants this moment, this reunion. Ori needs it more than her, after all, she suspects. 

When the tears are passed, then, she can sit beside her son, and he brings her hand to his belly. Under her hand, her grandchild turns, and she marvels. “You're so young,” she says. “I was young when I bore your sister, and I was still far older than you are now.” 

“Fíli thinks it's a sign that Mahal approves, that he wants us to have Erebor again.” 

Glori looks up, and sees how he's looking at her, too afraid to voice something. “What are you thinking about?” 

He bites his lip, his hands twisting in his sleeves. “Mama, when you...when you...what you do for people?” He twiddles his fingers, and she understands. 

“When I dream?” Her youngest has always been the most curious about her talent, and for the longest time, she'd thought maybe he'd be the one to inherit it from her, because in some ways, Ori was the most like her. Like her, he had the uncanny talent of spotting a lie, and she had always thought it was related to her gift. But he never dreamed, could never read the signs in the smoke or the stones. And she had thought it was for the best, because the future could be a hard thing to know, and she wanted only good things for Ori. 

Now, she looks at her son, and wonders if, like his beauty, this has just been a more careful forge.

“What have you dreamed, my love?” 

He shakes his head. “It was only the one, and Kíli said I was being ridiculous.” 

“What did you dream?” she insists. 

His hand rests over his stomach. “I dreamed...he was maybe twenty, or so. Walking, and already so tall. He had golden hair.” He laughs at himself. “It was just a dream, Mama.”

“You've never had a vision before,” she agrees, forcing herself to be reasonable. “But that's a lovely dream..” 

Ori's smile changes, and his hands stroke his belly, settle there. “Did you ever think I would need to honour Durin's name with my baby?” 

And Glori laughs, because she should, but she also laughs because she thinks of the thousand times Ori had come home full of salt and fire, ranting about Fíli, calling him every name he could think of. She thinks of how Ori and Fíli had fought, arguing and sniping at one another, and hardly ever able to find peace. She thinks of how Fíli's eyes had always followed Ori, the way Ori always looked at Fíli. 

She remembers a festival, once, years and years ago. Some apprentice had been dancing with Ori, Glori sitting with the ones more interested in drink and gossip, speaking to Balin. Balin had grinned, and when Glori raised an eyebrow, he'd hitched his chin at something behind them. It had been Fíli, leaning against a tent pole, arms crossed across his chest and glaring out into the dancers. She thinks she rolled her eyes, perhaps made some sharp comment, but then Fíli had strode out into the group, and the next the pair had seen, Ori and Fíli had been dancing, if only for a few turns. 

She and Balin had shared a good chuckle over it, and gone back to their drinks. 

By the door, Dwalin is still on alert, and when she looks up, she sees archers perched on the cliffs. Not many in sight, maybe three, but she knows that only means there are more hiding. And when she really looks at the table her son had been sitting at, she sees a set of knives, laid out within reach. 

Glori is many things, but unlike her sons, she has never been very good at being foolish. 

“Where is Nori?” she asks, trying to work out just what she's seeing around her. 

Ori presses his hands over his belly, expression stubborn. “Wherever he wants to be.” 

She doesn't fault him for the bitterness, not with what she knows of the circumstances, but she won't stand for the cheek. “I didn't ask for insolence,” she chides. “I asked where Nori is.” 

“He's with the Ur clan,” Dwalin answers for him. 

That makes some sense. He and Bofur have always been good friends. But it doesn't explain why he's not here, watching over Ori as he should be. “Why?”

The doors to the balcony open without a knock suddenly, startling all of them, including the archers. They notch their arrows with the intent to kill, but the strings loosen when it is shown to be only Gimli, a tall, fair-haired Elf, and Fíli. Still, she has eyes on them, and one unfortunate creature meets her gaze. 

They bite their lip, and step back into the shadows.

She's not being told something. Many things, if she had to guess. She's never liked people trying to deceive her, especially her children. They're not very good at it, for one, and for another, it tends to end in tears when she susses it out. She still remembers how Nori had fussed and cried when she'd found out about Dwalin. They'd had quite the row over the very idea of her son seeing a _noble_ , a _guard_. Dori had ended up needing to interfere on that one.

Well. She supposes at least one of her children had managed to deceive her. How had she never seen what Dori was hiding all those years? Oh, she'd known Bifur favoured him too much, spent far more coin than he could likely afford on Dori's time, and she'd known Dori was giving him credit in exchange for Bifur training Nori, even if she hadn't approved. She'd never have dreamed of what she found in that box though, the letters, the small gifts wrapped in little scraps of fabric and ribbon. 

She'll have to face him, sooner rather than later. 

“Glori!” Gimli cries cheerfully, and hurries to her, pulling her up into his arms. She does her best to return the embrace, but the lad has grown stronger than his years, and there's little she can do but let it happen. “I was so sure it was your caravan! You must have had good roads!” 

“I spent most of the journey in a cart, so I couldn't say,” she replies, getting her breath back once the lad lets her go. “It's only been a few months, lad, not years.” 

It could have been though, for all Fíli is so changed. Has it been so long since she last saw him? Less than two years. Yet he, like her Ori, is entirely different. He stands somehow taller, stronger. More grim than she can ever recall seeing him. But the way his eyes flick to Ori before anywhere else is very familiar. 

“Forgive us,” he says, walking past Dwalin, to Ori, and herself. “I hadn't been told your mother was in this group.” He smiles at her, and oh, but he has always had the promise of being a handsome lad, but he's not much of a lad any longer, and the promise has been fulfilled. “Welcome home, Glori.”

“I am glad to be here,” she replies, and tries to watch without looking too close, at the way he kneels before her youngest, and presses his hand to Ori's belly. “Though perhaps I'm not so glad to come and find my youngest in a bolting marriage to the King. I didn't even get to attend! I'm rather put out. I could have had myself a fine new dress made, and jewels beside. I could have been quite beautiful again.” A ridiculous notion. Glori is well aware her beauty is quite faded, like a gem gone clouded with age. But it would be nice to at least have beautiful things again. 

Her son makes a pinched face, but Fíli smiles, his hand moving over Ori's belly in a slow circle. “I'm sure we could find many jewels fit for the mother of a hero of Erebor,” he says. “Just as I'm sure there's many a tailor or seamstress that would be all too happy to see you well-dressed. You have no small amount of coin to spare.” He huffs, and says, more to Ori than her, “Which reminds me, is there some sort of history between the Tailors' Guild and the Musicians' Guild I should know about?”

“Oh,” Ori groans, “That can't have started up again!”

“Something has certainly started,” Fíli says. “Which brings me to why I'm here. Are you up for talking to the grandmasters today?”

Ori looks at her, and though she's loathe to be parted from him so soon, she suspects this is something that should not be put off. “Go, my sweet,” she says. “I will still be here when you're done.”

“I'm sorry, Mama,” he says anyway, standing with help from Fíli. “I'll try to be quick.”

She waves him off. “I believe I need to lie down for awhile, in any case.” To sleep in a real bed will be something, she imagines, after this long journey. She's not quite that tired, not just yet, but she will need to rest soon if she expects to be up and about for supper this evening. 

“I'm still sorry.” He bends as much as he can, and kisses her temple. 

As soon as the doors are shut behind him and the rest of Fíli's party, she arches an eyebrow at Dwalin. “Are they really still doing that same old dance?”

Dwalin snorts. “Only those two could get the way they are and still not work it out.” He leaves the door now, and sits beside her. “Been something to watch though.” He pulls on his own beard, rolling his eyes. “Only thing half the Dwarrows coming in want to wag their tongues about, how in love those two are. How _blessed_.” 

“They've been in love with each other since they were children,” Glori says, helping herself to some of the tea that her son had been enjoying. “They're just the last ones to work it out.” And that's the end of joyful talk and jokes, because now she can ask, “Why so many guards?” 

“A precaution.”

“Don't lie to me,” she warns. 

He pushes at some of the food that had been set out, but it's mostly fruit. Dwalin's never been fond of fruit, if she remembers right. Indeed, he doesn't take any of it, but he does filch a cube of hard brown sugar from the bowl. “You know how Northerners see your sort.”

She knows. She knows better than him. She remembers the people brought to Erebor from the North, treated as little better than slaves. She remembers the first time she had asked one why they did not simply leave. Remembered the one she asked removing their soft silk slipper to show her. 

“They burn their feet,” she says. “They brand them there, and worse.” Worse. So much worse. “They make it so they cannot walk anywhere outside of smooth floors without being in agony.” She can still see the mutilation, the scars. The toes of their feet had been broken, their entire foot twisted in on itself until it was not even the length of her hand. 

She remembers her disgust and her fear. 

And she remembers carrying Dori, and the way a Northern noble had sneered and said, so candidly, so easily, to an Erebor noble, “You let them bear? Why?”

And Ori is a 'Ri, for all that means. 

“Something happened.” She's not asking a question.

Dwalin nods. “Two attempts. One in their bedroom, by a rat who lied her way into being one of his attendants.” She cannot breathe, but Dwalin is laughing in a quiet sort of way. “She had a knife. He threw a boiling kettle of tea on her.” He looks at her, firm. “I always thought my little law-brother was too soft. He never learned a weapon. Never cared to. I underestimated him. For someone that clever, anything can be a weapon.” 

She still cannot speak, because she knows if she does, she'll cry.

So Dwalin continues. “The second attempt was made when he visited your family home.” 

“He's bearing,” she says, as though it could protect him. 

She should have known. She should have known that they would try and come to Erebor, that they would try and ruin this place. That they would see her son bearing, see him beside Fíli, and not see what everyone who ever knew the pair of them would see. Because everyone who knew them always saw it, and it was such a joke, watching the pair of them, the way they were. They were always like lodestones placed the wrong way around, but just a tilt, one change, and she had always known they would snap together. 

But they see a 'Ri, the son of a whore, from a family of whores, and she knows what they think about him. Never allowed to love, only knowing coin. Not capable of love. 

“Thank you, Dwalin,” she says. “For telling me.” She thinks of the box of Dori's, and she says, “I'm set to retire, Dwalin. But if you could ask Bifur to come see me?”

He hesitates. “Glori..he...he's never claimed status as a widower – he wouldn't _do_ that, he knows -”

She rises, with no small amount of effort. “Bring him to see him, law-son.” She makes for the doors, but Dwalin gets there before her and opens one for her. 

He's a good lad. Always has been. A fool, like her Nori, but she always thought that made them well-suited to one another. “Come here, my boy,” she says, and he leans down. She kisses his cheek, and holds him close. “I am so happy to come home to my sons. All of my sons.” 

He doesn't say another word, and lets a servant lead her to where she'll stay. The room is hardly furnished, but she didn't expect much better. There's a bloody bed though, and she lies down and rests comfortably for the first time in months, or as comfortable as she can get. Servants have placed warming pans under the mattress and another brings her tea with some poppy's milk in it. For the first time in a long time, nothing hurts, and she sleeps easily. 

When she wakes, it's because Ori is sitting on her bed, his hand on her arm.

“Hello, my sweetling,” she says. 

“It's almost time for supper, Mama,” he says. He's so light, so easy, but she always knows a lie. 

She always knows a lie, but she also knows when to lie herself, when to let a lie live. “Supper sounds good.”

♦

It's the middle of the night, but neither of them can sleep, so they're sitting out on the terrace. The summer heat is lightened in the night, the mountain high enough there's a breeze that keeps the air fresh. 

“Three turns,” Fíli wages, and flips the flat stone up. 

“Five,” Ori mumbles. 

It flips four times, just to be contrary, before clattering down on the ground. Ori picks it up then, but doesn't flip it. The game wasn't serous, just something to do with his hands, so Fíli lets him keep it, Ori turning it over and over in his hands. “I think Dwalin told her,” Ori says at last.

“About what?” The twist of it is, Fíli genuinely has no idea just what Ori knows, not these days, and he doesn't know how to breach the subjects in question. 

“The attempts on me.” Fíli hardly has a moment before Ori says, tired, “I'm not in the mood to fight with you.”

“Wasn't going to start one,” Fíli protests, pulling Ori tighter against him. In truth, he was never angry with Ori after the second attempt. It had been the fear that had made him so sharp, because it was too close, yet again. Someone almost managed to take Ori from this world yet again, and Fíli cannot live in a world where Ori isn't.

He's never clarified the thoughts before this moment, and he buries his face in Ori's hair, breathing him. _Oh_. This is why Thorin told him to stay away from the shop, this is why Dwalin tried to warn him off.

This is why he always kept going back to their shop. 

Ori, always, in his too-big knitted clothes, glaring at Fíli. Ori, beating him at soldiers more often than he had any right to, little scribe with no weapon. Ori, letting himself be yanked around by some idiot on that festival night, and Fíli looks back now and he knows why he was so upset. He wasn't angry. He was _jealous_. He was jealous of the idiot who had his hands on Ori, of the flowers braided in Ori's hair, that Ori was with someone else, and not in Fíli's sphere, where he belonged.

He feels like a fool, was likely thought one by everyone else. How was he so blind? 

He keeps these thoughts to himself though, at least for the time being. It's not the right time.

“Why do you think she knows?” he asks instead. He hadn't noticed anything amiss in Glori during supper. She'd fussed over Ori, but really he'd of been more surprised if she hadn't. “And even if she does, what does it matter? Were you not going to tell her?” 

“I would have had to, eventually,” Ori admits, and struggles against Fíli so that Fíli releases him, and Ori can get to his feet, using Fíli's shoulder for support. “But I didn't want to worry her right away. I wanted her to have some time to rest, to be happy here.” His hands rest on his stomach, a habit now, Fíli's noticed. “No one's really been too happy about this. But she is, even if she teases.”

He didn't need to tell Fíli; Glori's always enjoyed needling people, and he knows her well enough to know the difference between her teasing and true ire. It had been pleasant too, to see someone care for Ori as he needs, someone who didn't need more tending themselves. “I think she's going to be a terrible grandmother,” Fíli says. “The child will quickly learn that when we say no to something, they can just go ask her instead.” 

Ori laughs, and starts to walk around. Though he doesn't need to, Fíli still looks up to be sure the archers are where they should be. One sees him looking and whistles a bit of birdsong down to him, reassuring him enough he can settle back and watch Ori walk around the terrace. 

“She wasn't very indulgent with us, actually.” 

Under the moonlight, with most of his braids undone, there's something about the look of him that makes Fíli's chest ache. Ori isn't at all like a sapphire or a ruby, polished up and sharply cut. He's more as an opal, the beauty of him understated, gentler, the light catching at him in a different way at every angle, until all one wanted to do was look at him, try to memorise every single facet. Fíli is almost jealous that the archers get to see him this way, but not truly. He wants everyone to see how Ori is, wants it to spread through the mountain until it washes the ugly poison of the lies that too many believe. 

“My mother wasn't very indulgent either,” Fíli says. “What sort of parents do you think we'll be?” 

“Terrible,” Ori scoffs, so Fíli gets to his feet and pulls Ori into his arms, humming as he leads them around so Ori understands they're dancing. “ _Fíli_.” He doesn't pull away though, instead following Fíli's lead. He'd done that the first dance too, back in Ered Luin. “My mother, she gets this look when she's worried. And she's worried. But she's not saying anything.”

“Could just be that you're bearing,” Fíli points out.

“I don't know,” Ori replies, shrugging. “Maybe that's all it is. I'm just so happy she's here, I keep waiting for something to come along and spoil it”

Fíli spins them, Ori a little awkward now at such a movement. “Nothing is going to spoil this for you. I won't let it.” 

“You can't control the world,” Ori huffs, and pulls back from him. 

“I rule the greatest Dwarven Kingdom of the East,” Fíli says, though it never seems to have ever really meant much to Ori, not the way it did everyone else. “And so do you. We control a good part of the world.” 

“We can't even control the damned mountain, Fíli.” 

Two attempts, two that have come far too close. 

Overhead, the clouds are looking heavy, and he smells rain in the air. “I cannot control the weather, at least.” He puts a hand on the small of Ori's back, and guides him to the doors. “Let's get to our bed. Bad enough you had that chill after our last row, it's getting cold at night again.” Ori had been stuck in bed with a fever after the last attempt on him, after their stupid fight, after Ori had stood out in the rain in bare feet, and gone to bed soaked through. 

Fíli had found himself waking every other hour, unable to find much real rest while Ori was ill beside him, even after Óin had assured them both it was just a small cold. 

This night, Ori follows him inside.

This night, Fíli sits awake long after Ori is asleep, not necessarily watching him, but rather looking back on a long life together, and finding all sorts of little memories that had never seemed like much of anything to look at. Every single one seems like it should have made it obvious to him, and yet it never seemed to mean anything at the time. 

Every time he had held Ori's things over his head, forcing Ori close, how he had always found something new to look at. The freckles Ori always got in the summer, how his hair was darker in the winter. The way the lobes of his ears curled, the ink stains always on his fingers, his wrists, even his face. How his voice pitched when he was so angry with Fíli, after Fíli had teased him for whatever reason. 

Every time he had found fault with whoever was trying to court Ori, usually always something petty, something stupid. They were always too arrogant, or too stupid, or too boring. Not worth being included. Not worth Fíli's time, and he'd been annoyed by Ori bringing them around, their presence always tiresome. Never worth a copper. Never worth Fíli's attention. 

Not worth one moment of Ori's. 

He hardly understands what he feels, but he thinks he's always felt this way. 

Beside him, Ori turns, and sniffs. He opens his eyes, squinting up at Fíli. “What's wrong?” he mumbles into the pillow. 

“Nothing. Just too many thoughts in my head tonight.”

Ori huffs. “Making up for lost time?”

“I walked right into that, didn't I?”

“You usually do.” 

He supposes that's true. In any case, he lies down beside Ori, and hooks Ori's legs over his hip when Ori nudges him with his knees. For whatever reason, he likes this position. Something about the way his stomach settles. And in any case, Fíli likes having him close like this. It fools him into believing he can keep Ori, and their child, safe. “Ori?”

“Hm?” He's already mostly asleep again.

“The next time one of them says one word against you, I'll have them killed on the spot.”

Ori doesn't open his eyes, but he does press his face against Fíli's bare chest, sniffing again as he gets comfortable. Once he is, he breathes out, his breath hot on Fíli's skin, and says, “Good.” He kisses Fíli's collarbone. “Now go to sleep.”


	11. Chapter 11

The rain doesn't ever seem to stop now. Ori doesn't mind, not if it means the heat of summer gives it a rest for a little while. When he has time for himself, he sits under a tent on his terrace, his thoughts a bit soothed by the sound of the rain on the stone. It makes the paperwork easier, when there's enough of a break in the downpour he can bring it out.

His mother joins him, when she can, but while Ori loves having her home and safe, he's always liked being by himself. Not that he's ever really by himself, not really. There's the baby, for one. And for another, there are the archers and guards constantly in attendance, hidden or not. 

But when they're out of sight, he can pretend he's alone. 

“You're in for it, you know,” he says idly, one day, while the rain falls hard and loud, the occasional burst of lightning followed by the roll of thunder. He really shouldn't be out here, he knows, but he's been uneasy all morning. At least out here, he's not surrounded by the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. “You're going to have to be really patient with the two of us. I don't know that we're going to be very good at this, not right away.” The baby is active right now, mostly against Ori's left side, and while it's not painful, exactly, it's not pleasant either, and it's making his back hurt in the worst way. 

He shifts position again, putting more of his weight on the table, and changing the angle of his back until it finally cracks. It makes things a touch more comfortable, and he can start to think about something other than how horribly he and Fíli are going to muck this all up. 

Maybe he's just really a selfish person, underneath it all, because he's not even sure he cares all that much about that part, not particularly, not when it means he'll get to have this, this little creature forging in him, sharing his blood, his breath. Durin's Day is still a long while off, but Ori is already impatient to see him, if only so he can get a good night's sleep again. 

Ori tries standing, and walks to the edge of the canopy. The rain splashes up his feet, but like this, he has a good view of Dale and the Lake. Despite the weather, there are boats out. 

“Will you like going out on the water?” Ori's never been one for the water himself, but Dori had told him often about how he and some of his friends would take a skiff out on good days, when Dori had been here and young. “I don't know that I'd let you, but your other father is an absolute idiot and will probably let you do whatever you want.” 

It's not as though the babe can hear him, so Ori says, “I think it's different for him. The attempts on you, on me. He hates that he couldn't keep you safe, that someone tried to hurt you. I mean, I didn't like it much either, but I think he's scared he's never going to get to meet you at all. I already know you.” The uneasiness he's felt since he woke up this morning is heavier at the thought, his chest tightening. Twice now, twice they've come so close. Twice now Ori has almost lost this before he's even really had it. 

Twice now that Fíli has almost lost this.

Ori has to take a breath, the effort not quite doing the trick, because he still doesn't know what to think of it, the way Fíli had held him that day, after Socorro, the way he had said that he could not bear losing Ori. 

It's just the two of them, the rain coming down so hard he doesn't think even an Elf could hear him, much less his guards. 

“Your other father was such a horse's arse while we were growing up. He was the worst.” Because Fíli had been horrible and Ori had hated him. He _had_. He swears he did. “But he's such a good person. It's in his blood, his bones. He'll love you so much. And you'll love him so much you can't stand it, I wager.” Ori wraps his arms around his belly, and tries not to _feel_ for just a moment, but it doesn't happen. “At least you'll get to grow up knowing you love him. The idea won't just come up out of nowhere one day.” 

Is he in love with Fíli? He has no idea, not really. He doesn't feel as though he understands much of anything these days, not even when it comes to his own head, his own thoughts. 

“I'm really scared.” The words are swallowed up by a crack of thunder, but they're still alive and well in Ori's chest, wrapped tight around his breath and his heart. “I've never wanted anything like how much I want you.” He hopes it's not like saying a wish out loud, admitting this, but the feeling he hasn't been able to shake all morning grows yet bigger and darker in his chest, even here outside, under the open sky.

The rain eases enough Ori risks the short walk back to the doors, and he lets himself back inside, the hall completely silent once the heavy door is shut. There's little difference between being out or in now, until this mood passes. 

Inside feels empty, his footsteps all the louder for it. The guards usually keep themselves to the entrances, away from Ori and Fíli's bedroom, and where their mothers' rooms are. Apparently Dís did not much like feeling spied on, and his own mother had frightened them off somehow or another. 

He walks a slow lap around the empty reflecting pool in the atrium, the room lit so low Ori can't make out any of the crystals or lamps any higher than the first storey. He's been told once there's time to get the room back in proper shape, it will be as bright as standing outside on a summer's day, but since all the old nobles tend to get carried away when they're talking about Erebor's former glory, Ori will believe it when he sees it. 

For now, he's content with the crystal arrangements in the bottom of the pool. The servants have been industrious about getting the place cleaned up, but the reflecting pool, empty and without any residents, isn't anyone's priority right now. It's clean though, and that's something of a miracle considering what it had been like the first time they'd opened these chambers. The water had all but evaporated, the drains clogged by the fish and plants that had long rotted away, but the smell of it had filled the place up, like a presence of its own. 

Ori's not all that sure he wants any fish in it, in any case. Fish don't seem like good company, and besides, Ori doesn't trust the Ravens of Erebor to not help themselves to a snack.

Turtles, maybe. Ori used to catch them when he was little. And turtles seem like they'd be more of a challenge to the Ravens. 

The walking helps settle his body, even if it doesn't do a thing for his mind. “You had better not be like your uncle,” Ori says, just to fill the silence. “Not Kíli, or Nori. Bad enough we're your parents, you don't need to act like those two. We were all absolute nightmares sometimes.” Most of the time. All the time, really, but most of the time he was just the look-out. 

He feels silly, thinking about that, like it was all a hundred years ago and not two or three. He feels so different now, like another person entirely sometimes. 

He's married to Fíli. He's the Consort to the King of Erebor. He's bearing. 

He's in Erebor. Erebor, their faerie-story kingdom.

Thinking about it, he looks up, up into the dark shadows of the atrium, and turns about, the feeling of _too much_ , of far, far too much, threatening to overwhelm him again. 

“You'll grow up here,” he says again. “You'll grow up in all this glory, and you won't think anything of it, will you?” He swallows. “You'll never be hungry. You'll never be cold. You'll never want. Not as we did.” He keeps looking up, as though the old crystals and lamps are going to suddenly light up, and show him just what Erebor was, all those years ago. “What's your life going to be like? I can't even imagine it, you know.”

He can hardly imagine how things will be only a year from now, when the baby is born and here. 

“I hope you'll be at least a little like me,” he says softly. “Just a little.”

That seems a little selfish, but he's not going to be sorry for it. 

The bells mark the hour, the sound echoing up through the atrium, making it hard to count, but Ori's gotten used to it. It's the afternoon already, which means Ori needs to venture out of the private rooms of the palace and into the public areas. Dís had been firm on that, aggravating Ori, but he'd felt betrayed when his own mother _agreed_ . 

Ori needs to be _seen_ , apparently. The visiting nobles and dignitaries and officers have to see that the line of Durin remains unbroken, is being carried on. 

He reasons that perhaps he'll feel better, once he's out of the silent royal quarters. Maybe he just needs some company, something to get him out of his own head. 

Two of the servants help him dress, the pair of them squabbling quietly over the choices. The younger one, a lass from the Iron Hills who wore her hair out in a fluffy halo that seemed twice as big as her head, was fighting hard for the violet, Ori's own colour, while the older one, a lass with moon-skin, was making a fierce case for something blue, because, _“That's the whole point, you idiot -” “Just 'cause he's married to the king, doesn't mean he doesn't have his own family!”_

Tauriel sits on the floor in front of Ori, while Ori does her braids in a Dwarven style, to pass the time and to keep his hands busy. She's to be his companion for going out today, but she'd been out in the city all morning, inspecting the Eastern walls, and it shows in her hair, even if she'd changed into clean leathers before coming up to see Ori. 

“Kíli should give you a token,” Ori says, only half-listening to the servants squabble. “For your hair.” Something to keep it pinned back while she was working, at least. 

“We're not lovers, Ori,” she replies quietly. 

“Maybe not in the traditional sense,” he hedges. “But that's because Kíli's been ill.”

She huffs. “I don't _need_ a token, then. I know what he feels. He told me after he hardly knew me. And I know what I feel. Why does anyone else matter?”

“Because...you're an Elf. A Mirkwood Elf. A Mirkwood Elf that the second prince of Erebor is stupid over.” She tries to turn her head to give him a look, but she can't do much with his hands twisted in her hair. “He's my friend, I'm allowed to call him stupid. And anyway, it's not about him being stupid, it's that...there are just...there are traditions, is all.” 

“I'm older than some of your traditions, Ori,” she counters pleasantly. 

He forgets that sometimes. “It's just...our people, they know what you did for them. How you saved him. How you fought with us. And you've been here with us. Our people respect you.” He tries to think how he needs to phrase the next bit, but he can't think of any way to make it nicer. “Kíli not giving you a token disrespects you.” 

She scoffs. “ _Dwarrows_. I will live another thousand years, and still have no hope of comprehending you.” The fire pops, and the argument at the wardrobe finally seems to settle. It's good timing. Ori is almost done. “So, because Kíli hasn't given me a bauble for my hair, now Kíli is the one who looks bad?” 

“Bad enough you're an Elf, and, well...Fíli and me did things a bit out of order, you see, so Kíli's got a lot on him now.” One of them has to do things right. Everyone might seem to think that Fíli and Ori are very romantic, or something, but the truth is what it is, and Kíli should at least do his courtship right. “Besides, what's wrong with having something for your hair?” 

She glances over her shoulder, then looks back at the fire, her posture awkward. “I've...I've never...I'm a soldier, I've never worn my hair as you do,” she hisses, just loud enough that only Ori can hear. 

Ori blinks. “Is that all? I can teach you.”

“I'd look ridiculous, either way.” The back of her neck is turning red, her shoulders stiff.

He didn't mean to embarrass her. He's not sure _why_ she's embarrassed, but she is, so he drops it. “Maybe a bracelet then, or a ring?” He finishes the braid, and pins it all in place. Tauriel helps him stand, and he goes to the servants, the pair of them apparently having settled on the one grey surcoat he owns, to go over a white shirt and soft dark trousers. 

They help him dress, the surcoat laced over his chest, but left open for his belly, since it certainly won't close. They clip the bearing chain around him instead, the mithril chilled enough from lying on the dressing table that Ori actually feels it through his clothes. There's hardly much need to wear it, he doesn't think, but Dís and his own mother had both been adamant about the proper way of doing things.

One of the girls, the one with moon-skin, Beryl, he remembers, is looking through the jewellery on the dressing table, not touching any of it, her stark-white fingers hovering over the pieces. “Sir Engin sent some lovely rings for you.” 

With his craft mark in them, Ori had noticed. Fíli wouldn't like that, and Ori doesn't either. It makes him think of what Kíli said, back when Ori first found out. About how Sir Engin looks at him. 

He does look at Ori an awful lot, even now. 

“No,” he says. “Lord Dáin's daughter, she sent a set, didn't she?” He remembered the box with her maker's mark, at the very least. 

“Well, yes, Your Highness, but the set she sent was iron. Iron is...” Beryl pauses, and the other lass, Ioana, that's right, cuts her eyes at her. 

“They've got sapphires set in them. Blue is His Majesty's family's colour.” 

Beryl glares back at Ioana. “They're still _iron_.”

Ori's not much in the mood. He crosses to the dressing table himself, and opens the box, showing the set Dáin's daughter, Díza, had sent. The rings are indeed iron, little slivers of sapphires set in the geometric designs to catch the light, draw attention to his fingers. She'd been told he was a scribe, an artist. 

He slides them on, one for each thumb, and one for each index finger. They're noticeably plainer than anything else in the box, but they don't bother his fingers like the others do. 

Beryl's lip is curling.

“I grew up without so much as a bead to my name,” he says, feeling insulted, even if Beryl doesn't mean any harm. “I'm not too good I can't wear iron.”

She swallows, and looks away from Ori. “I meant no offense, Your Highness.” 

“I know.” He tries to smile at her, so she doesn't think she's in trouble, and she relaxes just a touch. 

Ioana still smirks in a very self-satisfied way, and he knows they're going to fight as soon as he and Tauriel are out of the room. And right on cue, as soon as the doors to the inner rooms shut, Tauriel stiffens and looks back at them. 

“How bad is it?” He likes their fights. It gives him something to laugh about.

Tauriel laughs dryly. “You do know people, don't you? I think the one with the hair just called the pale one a name in your language.” There's a sound even Ori hears, and Tauriel cringes. “And I know that was _very_ rude.”

“They don't get along. But no one else likes either of them, so they get put together.” Ori's been on their side of things his whole life; he knows what it looks like when servants don't get on. 

They walk down to the main areas of the palace, Tauriel telling him about the work on the guard posts along the eastern side of the mountain. It's one of the few parts of their kingdom that has mostly only suffered from neglect, not Smaug. But since they were where the Ravens fled, and have roosted all these years, there's a lot of negotiation going on. The Rookery isn't yet repaired, and the Ravens claim that not all the chicks are ready to be moved. 

He wants to see their nests himself, but it's one of the many places now forbidden to Ori. The Eastern wall is too isolated, and Ori thinks if there's one more attempt on him, Fíli really will start beheading people. Ori's not too keen on the idea either. 

He wishes he could stop thinking about it, for once. Even with Tauriel here, he doesn't feel safe. 

A group of Elves are lingering in the hall outside of the throne room, speaking in their own language. When they see Ori and Tauriel though, they stop, and switch to Common. One, an Elf named Sheera, bends at the waist, their hand hovering over Ori. 

“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” they say, making little attempt to sound dignified. “And how are you?”

Even if there wasn't a constant threat hanging over him, Ori still wouldn't be all that happy about how everyone wants to touch him. From what Tauriel's told him though, there's a chance he's one of the few carrying they've ever met in their long lives. And they have to mend fences with the Elves, one way or the other. So he takes their hand and presses it to wear he's been able to feel the baby turning all morning. 

“Oh,” they exhale, and blink quickly. “How wonderful it must be, to feel life growing inside of you.” 

“Yes,” Ori agrees. “It's a little uncomfortable right now, though.” 

Under their hand, the baby squirms, and twists like mad, enough that Ori has to shift, tipping back a bit. 

Sheera pulls back, standing straight and brushing their long braids back behind their ear. They're still blinking a bit more than they should, their eyes a little bright, but another Elf steps forward, one Ori doesn't know by name. They put their hand on Sheera's shoulder, and smile down at Ori. Or something like a smile. “Your Highness,” they greet, nodding. “I doubt you've been able to take notice of me before. I am called Asha. I have been named Captain Tauriel's successor.” They nod to Tauriel. “I hope you are satisfied with this, Captain.” 

“I'm sure you will excel in the role,” Tauriel says, her hands clasped behind her back. 

Ori doesn't think he likes the energy between the pair of them, but he can't get a read on it. It doesn't matter, in any case, because there's a call from down by the balconies that overlook one of the main entryways, and the Elves bow politely before moving on. Asha bows quite a bit less than the others.

“You don't like her, do you?” It's hard to tell with Elves, but he's almost sure that one was a woman. 

Tauriel doesn't correct him, so he must have been right. “She can still hear us.” 

“She's a Captain. I'm Prince Consort to the King of the greatest Dwarven kingdom. I don't care.” He sees Asha look over, her eyes almost catching his through her hair, but it's worth it for the way Tauriel laughs under her breath.

Sometimes, Ori wonders if the Elves care enough about Dwarf politics to have had a hand in the unrest in Erebor. He doesn't think it's likely, not really, not with the way they treat him, and the way they all seem to follow after the children of Laketown and Erebor. Ori's caught them slipping the children sweets and toys, and he's seen Sheera happily showing off Elven strength, little Dwarf children and skinny Laketown ones hanging off their arm as they lifted them high. 

It's only his own people he cannot trust, and he feels sick over it. It would be so much easier if he could just blame someone else. 

“Let's move on, Your Highness,” Tauriel suggests, guiding him. If she knows what he's thinking, she doesn't show it.

She's still smiling by the time they reach the doors of the throne room, where everyone is already gathering for the day. Fíli and Kíli, easily taller than most, and Fíli the only blond, stand out and Ori's not quite so mixed up over everything he doesn't ignore the pull in him when Fíli turns and sees him. It's as though a hook is caught just under his breastbone, a tug that makes it feel so easy to step forward towards the hand Fíli has extended towards him. 

Fíli's hand settles on the nape of Ori's neck, the other brushing his stomach. “You look well, this afternoon.” His fingers trail up to behind Ori's ear. “Were you outside? Your hair is wet.” 

“Only for a little bit.” This close, he smells more like pipe-smoke than anything else, and while it's still unpleasant, it's not as bad as it was in the beginning, when just the hint of the scent was enough to have Ori heaving. “I needed a walk, though. The Ravens don't really say anything sensible, and the guards don't say anything to me at all.” 

Little Thorin laughs. “Shine still hasn't worn off, is all,” he says. “Give them a few years, and try not to win back any more kingdoms.” He claps Fíli on the back, hard, from the sound of it, then leans in close to Fíli, grinning. “Bad luck though, mate, but I don't think anyone's actually going to stop staring at your Consort there. He gets lovelier by the day, if you ask me.” 

Ori feels his face get hot, and he looks away. 

Fíli, on the other hand, scowls at Little Thorin. “I didn't ask you.” 

“Don't get your braids knotted,” Little Thorin cajoles, keeping Fíli close. “I have my own intended waiting for me back home, and while your Consort might be the fairest in Erebor, she's the fairest in my heart.” 

“You didn't say she was actually prettier though,” Kíli quips, joining the conversation now that he's had his hellos with Tauriel. 

Little Thorin shrugs, and says, “Well, she wouldn't like me lying. It's not like she wouldn't say the same about me, if you asked her.” 

He lets go of Fíli, turning more towards Kíli, and again, Fíli's hand finds Ori's waist, offering him a support to lean against. “He's only teasing,” Ori mutters, but even in his own head, he can't lie and pretend he doesn't like the way Fíli presses his mouth against Ori's temple. He's smiling when he does it, Ori can feel it in the shape of his mouth. 

The bell sounds to bring everyone back into the throne room, and Ori decides to stay at Fíli's side. He hasn't sat in the court in over a week, after all. 

There is a noticeable lull in the noise of the room when Ori walks up the steps beside Fíli, Little Thorin and Kíli trailing with Balin and Dwalin. Ori looks for Tauriel after Fíli makes sure Ori is seated. She's standing a bit further back, waylaid by a few guards Ori knows by sight. One of them is gesturing a bit more than Ori likes, Tauriel frowning down at him. 

Fíli, still standing, raises both hands, and the bell is struck once, signalling silence before he sits. 

The first to approach Fíli is a member of the Blacksmith's Guild, making a complaint about the dues being raised without notice for Dwarrows with no children. The Dwarf argues their case, until two of the heads of the guild step out to the floor, both already red in the face and clearly about to start shouting, but Ori is still watching Tauriel. Bifur has joined the group now, but only for a moment, before Tauriel says something that has him nodding and moving towards Ori, climbing the steps and standing beside him. 

Tauriel meets Ori's eyes, and signs that she's needed elsewhere. Ori nods, but doesn't sign back. There are too many people watching him. 

Something's wrong. She wouldn't leave for something petty. 

He has Bifur at his back though, and Dwalin and Kíli as well. And Fíli.

There's nothing to fear, he tries to convince himself, but something inside is creeping fear up his back. He looks around, and sees nothing but friendly faces, but he cannot calm down. Something is wrong, he knows it. 

Fíli glances over at him, and frowns. “Are you alright?” 

Ori shakes his head, but before he can rise to leave, someone else steps to the throne. 

It's Lord Albin, still in black. He's looking right at Ori, face hard, but not unreadable. The sheer disdain in his eyes is enough for Ori to put both hands over his stomach, as though his hands can shelter the one inside from Albin's open hatred. 

“I wasn't made aware you had an audience today, Lord Albin,” Fíli says, sitting straighter. He'd told Ori what he'd done the last time Lord Albin had dared to speak to Fíli. “What do you wish to bring before us today?”

Lord Albin drew himself up to his full height, shoulders back, hands clasped behind his back. With the cut of his clothes, it made him look even more like a crow, Ori thought. 

“I take after my father, Your Majesty, but my mother was a Firebeard, and a lady of high rank.” He pauses, as though they might need a moment to take in the information, as though it's some great revelation. Ori's sure he's got something planned now, something terrible. “I tell you this so you will understand my position when I say to you that I intend to stand behind my cousin, Socorro, daughter of Voski, and her upcoming defence.”

It's a spark thrown on pitch, the room exploding in noise. More than one Firebeard is on their feet, Gimli's mother, Gilah included, and one manages to break away from the crowd, their family axe pointed at Albin. “You do not represent the Firebeards!” They bellow, to shouted agreements from the room. 

“There will be no children murdered in Erebor!” Another Dwarf, a Blacklock with red ribbons and beads knotted into their locs, screams, hoisting a sword. “I'll kill every one of your lot myself first!” That gets even more shouting. 

But Ori keeps his eyes on Albin, who stands calmly in the eye of the storm, his eyes back on Ori. 

“Silence!” Fíli's voice is like magic, his order quieting the room. Or perhaps every Dwarf here hears what Ori does in his voice. Perhaps they're remembering their young king has more blood on his hands than most of them. Perhaps they know they're about to see more if Lord Albin does not stop talking. 

Fíli steps down the three steps, Ori watching his back, scared to stand, scared to even breathe too loudly. He presses his hands over his belly, and feels rather than sees Bifur and Dwalin step closer to the back of Ori's chair. 

“Explain yourself, Lord Albin. And I suggest you do it quickly.”

Albin glances around, at everyone watching, stepping back from Fíli and spreading a hand out at the court. “We have suffered under this farce long enough! I do not pretend to know just what was _tolerated_ in the Ered Luin settlement, but we in the North have not fallen so far from propriety!” He points at Ori, and before Ori can move, one of Dwalin's axes falls in front of Ori, blocking him from Albin's gaze. “Is this what Erebor will be? A _'Ri_ sitting on a _throne_ , here, in Erebor, our greatest kingdom?” Again, he gestures at Ori, and now he asks the room, “A 'Ri whore pretending at carrying the heir of Erebor?” 

There's a low hum of conversation in the room, but a stocky Ironfist steps forward, their right sleeve pinned up neatly at the shoulder, right leg clearly metal. They come almost all the way to Lord Albin, their hand on the hammer they wear at their waist. “And where were you, Lord Albin, on the battlefield? Because I remember seeing the 'Ri Brothers fighting in Thorin's Company. I remember His Highness fighting a war he's far too young for.” They turn to look at Ori, and he sees how the right side of their face bears scars. “The only reason I stand here today, Your Highness, is because your elder brother, Dori, son of Glori, saved me from the Warg that got my arm and leg. Saw him pick two hammers up off a fallen Dwarf, and he smashed its skull in, and the Orc riding the creature. Put a tourniquet on me himself, using his own shirt, and dragged me back to the healers.” They slam their fist over their heart. “I was but a lad in Erebor, and I didn't know nothing about your family. But I know who your brother was, and I know he fell for Erebor. I know you and your other brother followed Thorin through the worst of it. I know you fought Smaug. I know you're not even a hundred yet, and you fought beside Thorin, and His Majesty.” He raises his hammer now, high, and shouts, “The Ironfists stand with the 'Ri!” 

The cheer in the room is almost enough to deafen Ori, not helped by Dwalin joining in right beside him. 

“Dori, son of Glori, was a whore's son, and a whore himself!” Albin shouts.

Ori starts to stand, angry, but before he can say anything, Dwalin stops him, and something in his face has Ori's blood run cold. Beside him, Bifur is stiff, hands on on his spear, and suddenly Ori cannot stand, all the breath gone from him. He's always...he never asked. He never understood why Dori and Bifur were not married, but he never asked, because he always...he thought it must be because of him and Nori, and their mother, that Dori could not leave their family, or because Bifur was a poacher, and had the tattoos detailing his crimes up his arms, and Dori was protecting them, but...

But now he knows that's not it. 

Bifur looks down at him, and takes one hand off his spear to squeeze Ori's shoulder for a moment, before raising his hand to speak. _Dori protected you_ Bifur signs, against his chest. _Dori love you, Nori, mother_

“And you,” Ori says, his face hot, eyes pricking, because Dori loved Bifur so much. 

_Dori_ , Bifur signs, and then presses Dori's name-sign over his heart. 

“He called Dori a whore.” And Ori is filled with new anger, new anger on Dori's behalf, because Ori doesn't care. He doesn't care what Dori did, he doesn't care what his mother did, he _doesn't care_ because Dori was everything, and Dori was strong, and brave, and he's _gone_ and Lord Albin doesn't even have a bloody trade at all. So Ori stands, and Ori looks down at Lord Albin. 

Lord Albin is still talking. “Whores do not belong on the -”

Ori's always had very good aim.

The gasp that runs through the room is like a gust of wind, as one of the knives Thorin made for Fíli an age ago, now Ori's, clangs on the stone floor, Lord Albin's ear red with blood. 

Ori spins another between his fingers, finding the proper hold for it. He's rather sure he's shaking, and he can't breathe right, and his weight is all off for his stance, but he's still got these knives, and Thorin was a master, rightfully so. The knives are weighted perfectly, and Ori knows that if he has to, this one will go right into Albin's thigh, right where he'll bleed out. 

Fíli glances over his shoulder, the ghost of a grin flitting over his face for just a moment. 

Lord Albin, furious, presses the edge of his sleeve to his ear. “How dare you,” he hisses at Ori. “You -”

“I,” Fíli says clearly, stopping the lord, “would think very hard on my next words, were I you, Lord Albin. The last time we spoke, I made myself very clear on how I would repay an insult.”

The warning falls on deaf ears, as Albin declares, “I will not serve a _whore_.” He glares at Ori again, and Ori's hand tightens on the knife, his rings cutting into his fingers. “And I will see Erebor fall again before I allow a whore's child on that throne, no matter what I must do, how much coin it costs, even if it leaves me a pauper on the streets!”

The silence that falls on the room is so heavy it seems to choke the very air out of all present. All eyes are on Albin, on Fíli, not so much as a whisper going around the great room.

Lord Albin's said too much, and he knows it. Ori sees it in his face as he steps back, his skin ashen. He looks only at Fíli now, and he must know, Ori thinks. He must know he's damned himself. He must know, and yet he still says, his tone almost pleading, “I would have there be order here.” He looks around, maybe looking for friends, but Ori knows he won't find any. Everyone here knows what's about to happen, and they won't risk their own necks, even if they do agree. “I grew up on tales of your great-grandfather, Your Majesty -”

“So did I.” Fíli turns and walks up the steps again, stopping in front of Ori. He places one hand on Ori's belly, his eyes very blue and very old and sad as he looks down at Ori. “I grew up hearing about how he betrayed his friends, and saw lies and deceit everywhere, because the treasure had blinded him. How he all but ruined all our alliances. How he let his own poison infect the whole of this mountain.” 

He undoes the clasp of Ori's bearing chain, and holds it out to Bifur. Bifur takes it, grunting something in the Dead Tongue, but Fíli still has his eyes on Ori. Finally, Ori covers Fíli's hand with his own, the knife still in his other hand. Fíli presses his hand down, just a touch harder, then turns back towards Albin. 

“I am not my great-grandfather.” He gestures at Bifur, who is still holding Ori's chain. The mithril shimmers like ice against Bifur's dark leathers, all his tattoos and crimes hidden away, even if everyone knows. “And there will be no poison in this mountain, not during my reign. Or my child's.” Ori finds it easier to look at the chain, and he wonders why Bifur is still holding it, why Fíli gave it to him. 

He gets his answer very quickly.

“Your Majesty,” Albin tries, one last time. It is the last time, Ori knows. 

“This is Bifur, of the Broadbeams. You see, you don't only insult my family, the Longbeards, when you insult my Consort, or his brother. You insult, Bifur, son of Bathur, and husband to Dori, son of Glori. You threaten his brother-child.” 

He cannot do this, Ori thinks, and yet he _is_. 

Here, in front of the whole court, Fíli is unequivocally throwing his support behind the Silk District, and by giving this to Bifur, he is going yet one step more, by putting the poor on the same level as the nobles when it came to justice. 

And Fíli continues: “You insult his family.” Fíli looks around, at the court. “I grew up poor. I grew up alone. Ori, son of Glori, was my friend.” He scoffs. “Son of a whore, as Lord Albin says, but I knew his mother as Glori, and I knew him as the only one who could best me at soldiers, the only one who never put up with my fool temper, or whenever I decided to get a bit big about myself.” He turns to Ori, his eyes so soft. “I know him as Ori, son of Glori, hero of Erebor, one of Thorin's Company. I know he is Ori, my husband, bearer of my firstborn.” He smiles, and Ori doesn't know how he feels, the way he meets Fíli's eyes, and finds safety. “Ori, son of Glori, the Prince Consort of Erebor, One of Thorin's Company, brother to Dori.” He turns from Ori. “Brother of Bifur, son of Bathur, husband of Dori, son of Glori.” 

And Bifur steps forward, tightening Ori's bearing chain around his hands. 

“The insult to my husband was enough to have me turn you out. You insult the Longbeards. And I can't forgive you,” Fíli says. “The insult to the Broadbeams, however, that's not even mine to judge. Bifur, son of Bathur is head of the Broadbeams, and as Dori's husband, it's his judgement you have to answer to.”

Bifur asks out loud, taking Ori by surprise, because Bifur so rarely speaks, the action painful on his destroyed throat, “ _Did you pay for the attempts on my little brother and his child?_ ”

Lord Albin struggles to understand the Old Tongue. Everyone in the whole court sees it, He struggles so much he has to answer in basic Common, “I did what was best for Erebor.”

And the whole Court sees Bifur take Ori's bearing chain, and wrap it around Albin's throat, and Ori remembers Dori's flail. He was so proud of his flail, the one thing he had left from his other mother, the one he and Ori did not share, the one Dori's other mother had wielded an age ago. Bifur's weapon is the spear, but he uses Ori's bearing chain as Dori would have, and brings Lord Albin to the floor, choking.

“Clans?” Bifur shouts, in the Dead Tongue, to the room, and the cry is not only from the Broadbeams, but from all the little families, all the ones Ori knows, all the ones who grew up like Ori, with hardly one ribbon to their name, much less a bead. Because the word he used is the common one, not the formal one. 

It calls to everyone from the brightly-coloured Travellers, to the hard-worn Saltlocs, to the large Woolbeards, and everyone in between. Everyone who never had a place at the table, everyone just like the 'Ri, just like the Broadbeams. Everyone who got stepped on by people like Lord Albin. All the little nothing families. Only there are so many of them, when they're all together, Ori sees. 

Bifur calls to them, and they call back their answer.

The chain tightens around Albin's throat. 

Ori thinks that maybe he should look away, but he doesn't. Everyone is so loud, all the little families and the poor families, all of them are shouting. The din is enough Ori cannot hear Lord Albin's gasps for air, but he can see his hands scrabbling at the chain, his face bright red.

No noble moves to save him. Not even as his face finally turns purple, his eyes bulging. Not one.

Finally, Lord Albin stills. When Bifur lets the body go, it falls to the floor. 

With purpose, Bifur walks back to the steps, and hands Fíli the bearing chain. He in turn loops it around Ori's waist and clips it in place, then cups Ori's face and kisses him. “I did promise you,” 

“You did.” 

Two guards step out, hefting the body between them, and carrying it out, Gilah following with a runner she sends dashing ahead of them. Probably to fetch Dís, and inform her of what has happened. Ori looks around the room, spying movement, and sees that several people are making quiet exits through the little hallway doors. 

The story will have reached Dale by sundown, and will probably be quite a bit bigger. Which way it spins and falls is another matter altogether. 

It's much later, almost midnight, when he finds himself walking around the empty reflecting pool again, Fíli asleep in their bed. Ori had woken him when he got up, but they were both used to Ori needing to walk at night. 

It's here that Dís finds him, still wearing the dress Ori had glimpsed her in earlier in the evening. It doesn't surprise him that she hasn't been to bed, not on this night. 

“Hello,” he says, and she nods, coming closer. 

She reaches out a hand, and despite everyone and their mother doing the same for awhile now, it takes Ori a moment to realise what she's asking for. He takes her hand and presses it against his stomach, where the baby is moving.

There's a beat, and then she says, “Fíli moved at night too. He kept me up for six months straight, I swear. The best sleep I got was the night after he was born. A few spoonfuls of poppy's milk will do that for you.” She finally meets his eyes, and he sees hers are wet. “You should have taken his whole ear off,” she says, more firmly. 

“My mother said I should have aimed for his throat,” Ori confesses.


End file.
